


THE MARRYING KIND

by spicyshimmy



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fake Marriage, M/M, Slash, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a diplomatic mission to Delta IV, Jim flirts too much; Spock discovers the only logical solution to avoid the complications of jealousy between ambassadors is to allow the inference that Jim is already spoken for; Bones gets stuck moving roses for the happy couple. Or something like that. <i>‘I’m still waiting for him to wake up one morning and decide he’s got to put us all in stasis and store our bodies in hollowed out torpedoes,’ the doctor said. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tayloriusrex and Hanars at tumblr for being lovely betas; to Kassafabrication for being lovely; to Iambickilometer for the idea and letting it be run with far far far away; and Jensenshackled for encouraging me far too much... This is my first attempt at Trek-fic of any kind and the whole experience has been incredibly daunting but super fun. I'll try to update regularly. Thanks for reading!
> 
> SPOILERS for Star Trek: Into Darkness!

Spock was certainly capable of being absolutely positive about more than three things at once, much less altogether. Three hundred things would have proven a low estimate; three thousand, akin to pride. Nevertheless, the average daily number was somewhere between the two and tended to range closer to the high end. 

Yet ever since Jim had died—one more fact of which they could all be absolutely positive—and had subsequently returned to life, due to the astounding restorative properties found within a superior individual’s blood, three things in particular continued to rise above the rest.

One, that everything had changed: a generalization that nonetheless remained explicitly accurate since the days of their five-year mission began to pass and Jim Kirk assumed his position on the bridge in the captain’s chair.

Two, that nothing had changed: also a generalization, one ascertained whenever Jim met with an individual, identifying as female, who presented signifiers commonly held as aesthetically pleasing by human standards.

Three, that nothing and everything changing was a paradox not easily forgotten, just as Dr. Leonard McCoy refused to forget his duties, scanning Jim’s vitals at every opportunity, noting nothing but improvement. He was not placated by the positive, just as Spock had not been placated by _being_ positive.

But those two positions were, fortunately, dissimilar enough as to be dismissed entirely.

‘I’m still waiting for him to wake up one morning and decide he’s got to put us all in stasis and store our bodies in hollowed out torpedoes,’ the doctor said.

For the thirty-third time in deep space, the forty-ninth time since priming Khan Noonien Singh’s blood sample for injection.

If prior behavioral patterns were any indication, it would also not prove to be for the last time, either.

‘I find it curious, doctor,’ Spock replied, ‘that you appear to be more troubled by a successful operation than one that was unsuccessful.’

‘Don’t look a gift Gorn in the mouth, you mean,’ McCoy replied.

That was not at all what Spock had meant, though informing McCoy of that did nothing to alter the shape of his knotted brow. This could be expected. He was the doctor; Spock, the science officer. However, when Spock reminded him of the common earth saying ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ McCoy terminated their conversation completely and returned to scanning Jim and making dire pronouncements elsewhere.

‘What’s biting Bones?’ Jim asked, after a particularly insightful string of earth native metaphorical non-statements and McCoy’s departure from the bridge in favor of returning to medical.

‘I believe it was something to do with a Gorn, Captain,’ Spock replied. ‘Either that, or he is biting himself.’

‘Sounds like Bones to me,’ Jim said, without requesting further clarification.

As though he understood implicitly. But that, while not impossible, was highly improbable.

Nonetheless, he was healthy. There was color in his cheeks and light in his eyes. He was a prime specimen of human improvisation whose behavioral quirks had not altered since his latest and final escape attempt from medical observation. And his hands, which were the source of more personal meditation than Spock ever had cause to anticipate, were alive and strong and most vital.

Spock had touched those hands—fingertip to fingertip and palm to palm. Though there had been glass between them at the time, his natural Vulcan abilities had not been significantly diluted. Spock’s touch-telepathy had perhaps even been heightened by the extreme circumstances as well as Jim’s extreme emotions. Spock had sensed, felt, known, understood and seen, as far as emotions could be seen, a great deal more than either had intended. He had not regretted it; neither could he ignore it. Jim’s fears eclipsing his pride; the echo of relief and the sharpest slice of loneliness. The faltering heartbeat; the stubbornness that had him clinging to his final words as though they bridged the divide between the dead and the living. Jim’s life had not flashed before his eyes—a generalization of metaphor to which Spock had no loyalty; it meant nothing and illuminated nothing—yet it had flashed against his fingertips and rippled, echoes through the glass and time, into Spock’s hands. Spock had held them in his fists while fighting Khan; no blow had been strong enough to loosen his grip.

They were there even now. He had not relinquished them.

The man who’d accepted the five year mission was one more measured than the man who had clamored for it. Maturation after cessation seemed an unlikely phenomenon, but there it was. Death had lent a certain gravitas to the captain, one that had not been present before.

Although, if Spock were to invest more thought in the matter, he suspected he would find that it was not death but rather Jim’s final decision to enter the warp core that had given him the necessary bearing. A conscious act, rather than one brought on by failing human biology.

As always, it was necessary to give Jim credit for his own actions. He was many things, but simply reactive was not one of them.

At times, his behavior might even be termed unnecessarily proactive—a fact which Spock had taken pains to note in his reports.

‘I’m just saying, the speaker, she was into me,’ Jim later recounted, after a successful diplomatic meeting between members of their vessel and the Andorian Imperial Guard.

‘The Aenar are functionally blind,’ Spock reminded him.

Not an intended slight. Rather an informative prompt, from first officer to captain.

‘Are you suggesting there’s nothing more to me than my good looks, Spock?’ Jim asked.

‘My opinion of your physical appearance has no bearing on the matter.’

‘Spoken like a true diplomat,’ Jim said.

Spock’s reports grew increasingly detailed.

It had been suggested, prior to their mission, that Spock would not make a passable diplomat, much less a true one. Or rather, because he was a true one. His assertion of the Vulcan inability to lie had given an impression of someone unsuited to the delicate proceedings of Federation diplomacy.

But, as Spock had been quick to point out, of the senior officers operating onboard the Enterprise, his particular brand of tempered honesty was still preferable to Doctor McCoy’s often unintelligible pronouncements.

As for the captain, he was a category unto himself.

The Andorian mission proved to be only the first link in a chain of troubling behavior. Jim had always flirted, casting his attention like a wide burst of phaser fire, not altogether choosy about who or what he caught in the stun field. His advances were not often rebuffed and as such he never had cause to examine his conduct for any element that may have seemed unbefitting.

Indeed, as Spock made note of in his most recent report, even those women who had seen fit to choose a spouse before Jim Kirk landed in their lives were not disinclined to return his attention.

Put frankly, which was how it had already been recorded in the first officer’s reports, Jim had not yet been forced to consider the political ramifications of his relaxed and often salacious approach to diplomatic relations.

The arrival of the Enterprise on Delta IV did nothing to change his opinion.

‘Spock, I’m gonna live here,’ Jim pronounced, one hand placed prominently on the thigh of the Deltan ambassador’s chosen life partner.

Intervention had at last become a necessity.

Spock sought first the opinion of Doctor McCoy. Through Jim’s convalescence, his ire had swept recklessly over myriad topics, with no true target in mind. Of note, however, had been his opinion of Jim’s approach to romance, which Doctor McCoy had termed his ‘sowing of wild oats.’ He had assured Spock with customary emphatics that Jim would ‘reap the harvest one day,’ a statement which seemed more immediately pertinent to discussions on agriculture, though Doctor McCoy imbued it with a certain personal foreboding.

However, the doctor’s interests on Delta IV seemed to rest chiefly with the Deltans themselves. When Spock located him, in an alcove nursing his third Altairian brandy, his expression was that of a man half-asleep, in pleasant contemplation.

It seemed unlikely to attribute his happiness to the sedative effects of alcohol, as Doctor McCoy imbibed frequently, with no such calming effect to his fractured temperament.

‘That woman over there—no, don’t _look_ , damn you, Spock—I swear, she’s putting all kinds of ideas in my head. Is that possible? _How_ is that possible?’

‘Had you elected to read the ancillary files prior to our arrival,’ Spock said, ‘you might understand that it is not only possible, but a likely scenario, given the circumstances.’

‘Ancillary files,’ McCoy muttered into his glass. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself, Spock?’

‘Insofar as I am able.’

‘Well, there’s your problem right there. _Insofar as you are able_ my left foot.’ McCoy gestured. Spock blinked. No problem presented itself—no new problem, though the one Spock had brought with him remained in plain sight, much like the Deltan woman, whose finely evolved brain was causing the good doctor to believe it was her finely evolved form that was bedeviling him. ‘Are you sure these wicked creatures aren’t related to Vulcans somehow? Devils, I tell you. Every last one of you. And they don’t need the suggestive eyebrows and the pointy ears to prove it.’

‘Perhaps the Altairian brandy—’

‘Now, don’t you start prescribing to a _doctor_ , Spock,’ McCoy said. ‘We don’t like it and we won’t hear it, and that’s final.’

There was much that Leonard McCoy did not like and would not hear, current assessment included.

‘I am concerned about the captain,’ Spock began. This was a preferred topic, one that would benefit McCoy with distraction and Spock with further insight. Beneficial from multiple angles, and therefore only logical to begin at once.

‘If he’s talking about the torpedoes, don’t say I didn’t warn you, Spock.’

‘No mention of torpedoes has yet been made, doctor. Should the topic arise, I can assure you, you will be the second to know.’ McCoy did not appear placated, but Spock suspected the Deltan female’s continued experiments for her own entertainment had much to do with it. Unbeknownst to McCoy, he was proving himself to be the ideal patient for Deltan curiosity. ‘However, there is reason to believe his growing intimacy with the Deltan ambassador’s chosen life partner may prove detrimental to Deltan-Starfleet relations, if allowed to continue without proper intervention.’

McCoy snorted. Still unbeknownst to him, the Deltan female was charmed—Spock believed the expression was ‘as a human child in a candy shop,’ though he would have to check the saying’s accuracy when they had returned to the Enterprise, and he to his computer.

It was the same way Jim had been comporting himself: as though he believed the Deltans were the candy.

‘You ever try getting between Jim and somebody he’s got his eyes on, Spock?’ McCoy asked.

‘As it has never seemed prurient to do so, I have not,’ Spock replied.

McCoy mouthed the word prurient with the same disgust as someone about to spit. Fortunately for Deltan-Starfleet relations, already close to the fraying point, he refrained. ‘You’re preaching to the god-damn choir, Spock. The man’s got the sense God gave to a lemon when it comes to the fairer sex, and you can bet your boots he won’t be making lemonade.’

‘I fail to see how a favored human beverage—’

‘You think I haven’t tried to tell him he’s flirting with Deltan fire here, man?’ McCoy’s attitude indicated he had indeed tried, and to no avail. ‘Of course I’ve given the captain a piece of my mind about these Deltan women and their wiles. Only got him _more_ excited, the bastard.’

For someone who had been as worried as Doctor McCoy over Jim’s health a mere few months ago, his insistence on violating Starfleet protocol to insult his commanding officer and self-proclaimed friend was as troublesome as ever.

‘Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same damn thing, Spock.’

‘My concern is for the success of the prime directive. That, and avoiding a diplomatic incident caused by jealousy over amorous distractions.’

‘And the Deltan ambassador pounding Jim into space paste over his wounded pride—that doesn’t bother you at all, does it?’

‘It fell,’ Spock replied, ‘under the aforementioned diplomatic incidents as one of multiple undesirable, yet no less unlikely, possibilities if the captain chooses to continue his advances.’

McCoy snorted again. ‘Like I said, Spock— _you_ try stopping Jim when he’s romancing an attractive alien, see how far it gets _you_. ...As for me, I need another brandy. I swear—she’s inside my brain and she’s already redecorating.’

There was ample room for her there, Spock thought. McCoy paused long enough to register that Spock was thinking something, that it was most likely true but far from complimentary, then relinquished potential argument in favor of refreshments, just as Spock had anticipated.

Of the members of the Enterprise landing party, Spock alone retained a natural resistance to the telepathic suggestion possessed by the Deltans. He could not, however, assume that Jim’s lack of resistance was equivalent to lack of preparation.

On the contrary, Jim’s insistence on attending to his duties as captain left him very little time for anything else. He filed his reports, recorded his logs, and in the least made an effort to scan every message that came through on the Starfleet channel.

No; it was unlikely that Jim had come to Delta IV unprepared for the assault of pheromones and low-level suggestive telepathic urges the Deltans would provide. Rather, it could only be concluded that he welcomed it.

The state of Spock’s isolation as an observer rather than a member of the group was neither new nor particularly novel. His captain was in danger of compromising their mission and, in this scenario, the role of the first officer was clearly laid out.

The means by which he was to accomplish his goal were less clearly defined. But Spock had learned certain things from Jim; how to improvise was chief among the most useful.

He moved with purpose, heading for the captain’s table. He was not stopped, though he could feel the Deltans’ curious brushes against his mind like the tentacles of a harmless aquatic invertebrate. Spock had not read anything in the ancillary files regarding the Deltan opinion of Vulcan evolution; since the primary goal of their appraisal was sexual in nature, no doubt the Deltans would find Vulcan reproductive behavior to be as archaic, or even more, so than that of humans.

It was not Spock’s intent to approach Jim with these particular subjects on his mind. But as the moment of Spock’s intervention transformed from potential to reality, his reason for doing so coalesced. Jim’s hand was on a Deltan knee; the Deltan ambassador had noticed it; action was required, logically, but also immediately.

And, as Spock had discovered long ago, the immediate could not always be logical, lacking the preparation necessary. 

‘Pardon my intrusion,’ Spock said, ‘but I must ask you to refrain from further sexual discourse.’

‘What?’ asked the Deltan.

‘What?’ Jim repeated.

‘The captain and I are bonded together,’ Spock continued, ‘and Earth tradition dictates a cessation of conduct which could be deemed romantic in nature.’

Jim’s lips pursed, mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise in advance of forming a question. He sought something in Spock’s expression, a platform from which to make the next logical leap.

‘I believe,’ Spock concluded, ‘that the appropriate human word for such a relationship would be _fiancé_.’

Spock laid his hand on Jim’s shoulder, mindful of the potential transference that came to him with any physical contact, as visual cues would serve to reinforce his words. In that vein, he shared a look with Jim that compelled him to remember how important it was for members of Starfleet to maintain a unified front on their missions. The Deltans were a Federation race, but they had not been one of the founding members, and as such it was within Starfleet’s interest to continue to make retention an attractive prospect.

A starship captain earning the ire of an influential ambassador would go a long way toward undoing good relations. Similarly, a first officer making such a bold claim would reflect poorly on Starfleet were he not to find support for his statement.

In essence, Jim could not discount Spock’s claim without losing face for the Federation. Such a trap was generally beneath Spock or indeed any Vulcan, but he had been backed into a corner, and had acted as was most beneficial to all parties, under the circumstances.

This was the path of least resistance. In fact, Spock was finding most resistance came from within his own mind, rebelling at the illogical parameters of the situation. The others, due to their surprise, had yet to resist at all beyond confusion.

‘Oh.’ To Spock’s relief, Jim released the thigh of the Deltan ambassador’s life partner; the ambassador relaxed, if not completely, then noticeably. ‘Yeah. Yeah, Spock, this is Fyora. Am I pronouncing that right? _Fyora_ , Spock. The old ball and chain. Well, soon-to-be ball and chain.’

The Deltan—Fyora—appraised Spock with the indulgent interest of a scientist given a new species to examine microscopically.

‘I do not understand,’ she confessed at last. ‘You are…chained to this man?’

Jim’s shoulder jerked beneath Spock’s hand with restrained laughter.

It was not helpful.

‘Human colloquial embellishment,’ Spock answered, while privately acknowledging the irony. However colorful the metaphor, there was yet some truth to it—hence Jim’s amusement. ‘However, due to the nature of our arrangement, I must ask you to keep a respectful distance, both physical and mental, from him, for the duration of our time on Delta IV.’

‘Are human relationships truly so quaint?’ Fyora turned her attention to Jim, who shrugged.

‘The quaintest.’

‘Yet equally as difficult as ours, it seems,’ the ambassador added, the tendrils of his thought-probes registering, with sympathy, Spock’s current mentality not of annoyance, but of restrained disapproval, ‘when something new and pleasant to look at catches their attention.’

Spock, intending to remove his hand from Jim’s shoulder, found it caught beneath Jim’s palm and pressed to Jim’s Starfleet uniform. A frisson of heat overpowered the simpler sensations, callus and fingerprints, fibers and weaves, marked by distinct patterns of amusement and curiosity, simple flares of emotion that rendered Spock momentarily contemplative, if not overwhelmed. He could no more ignore them than he had been able to ignore the potential for trouble between allies and the threat to the prime directive. Then, Jim rubbed one of Spock’s knuckles with his thumb, causing new friction—and new realization.

They had not been this close—they had found no reason to be—since Jim had died. In point of fact, this was the closest they had ever been, unless one included the time Spock had his hands around Jim’s throat with the intent to...

There had been no intent. Merely emotion—pure rage.

He was not proud of it.

Jim cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. It took Spock a moment longer than it should have to realize Jim was not—could not be—speaking to him.

Fyora, who had been nearing what Spock assumed was a Deltan pout at the interruption of her fun, was once again excited beyond Vulcan measure. ‘Do you?’ she asked. ‘What a fine trick. Another unexpected twist from the human intellect.’

‘Well, more or less. It’s the same thing everybody—and I mean _everybody_ —asks when they find out about the two of us. Together. Like that.’ Jim paused; he used dramatic effect to rousing success on the bridge and here, too, his talents served him well. ‘They all want to know, how the hell—pardon my French—a thing like that’d even happen. Who did the proposing and all the important details. Where and when and _especially_ how. Vulcans,’ Jim added, and shook his head, and did not remove his hand from Spock’s, a show of solidarity that had now lasted longer than regulation required of them. ‘And, I tell you, if I hadn’t been there myself, even _I_ wouldn’t be able to believe it. Seeing what I’ve seen, I tell you—it takes the cake.’

‘You must tell us,’ Fyora said.

It was not the first time Spock experienced twin and conflicting reactions simultaneously. One compelled him to agree—‘Yes, captain, you must tell us’—while the other recognized to compound the ruse would be the antithesis of logic, as it would complicate the lie.

‘Aw, would you—just look at that, would you,’ Jim said. If he was the victim of conflicting reactions, then neither was he a stranger to the experience. And he rose to the performance demanded by the occasion, as had always been noted on his personal file. ‘Took me a while to work it out, but when he—when Spock here clams up about a thing, chances are it’s ‘cause he’s so _private_ about it all. I’m not gonna say shy; you wouldn’t believe how much he hates that word. Okay, but I’ll say this: he thinks it’ll reflect poorly on his Vulcan sensibilities, if anybody has the chance to interpret his actions as the r-word. You know. _Romantic_.’

‘They are not a people given to such gestures,’ Fyora agreed. Spock detected wistfulness present in her tone.

‘No; no, they are not.’ Jim rubbed Spock’s knuckles again with his thumb. Again there was friction. Again there was transference. ‘But, I mean, I’m not gonna confirm one way or the other, because that’s private, like I said, and I’m not gonna say outright, so don’t even try to squeeze it out of me, but I mean, if there were flowers involved— _if_ there were—then let’s just say they were red. Just for the sake of having a clearer picture. And they might’ve been roses, if they existed at all.’

‘Captain.’ It had taken Spock too long to find his voice. Now that it came, it lacked the necessary reprove. It had to, since it was Spock himself who had started them down this path.

To protest now would be even more illogical than the rest.

‘See what I mean?’ Jim’s face was impassive, a fondness in his eyes that the Deltans would no doubt be interpret as intended for Spock—while in truth, Jim’s enjoyment came from the ruse rather than its participants. He committed himself with the same zeal he employed while hurling himself over cliffs, often physically and literally. He dug the tips of his fingers under the side of Spock’s hand and squeezed. ‘Shy. Well, no, sure, not shy. _Reticent._ That’s better—isn’t it, sweetheart?’

Spock’s sharp response was momentarily paralyzed by a bombardment of sensory artillery: Jim’s loud emotions and even louder thoughts cluttering his head. There was nothing specific—this was no true mind-meld, and lacked the clarity of ideas one entailed—but the noise was there all the same. It transformed a mental landscape to a Deltan banquet hall, where before Spock’s head had been a tidy room.

The Deltan ambassador cleared his throat. Spock felt again an equal expression of sympathy from him. Someone who knew well what it was to be in a relationship with someone whose high spirits dictated their every course of action.

Although the nature of the Deltan ambassador’s relationship with Fyora was by definition different from the one shared by Spock and Jim—the ambassador had no way of knowing just how different it was.

‘Sweet Heart?’ Fyora asked. ‘Is that one of your Earth endearments? It sounds more like a delicacy…’

The look she turned on Spock suggested she would favor tasting him if he _were_ an Earth dish—and perhaps even if he were not.

Spock was a Vulcan and he was an officer of Starfleet. As both, he did not feel embarrassment. He was, however, experiencing certain unflattering opinions of his captain that would reflect poorly on them both, if he were to voice them. Therefore, he merely tightened his grip on Jim’s shoulder, knowing it could be classified as affection.

It was far from such.

‘My apologies,’ Spock said. ‘It was not my intention to make our private lives the focus of public speculation.’

‘But that’s exactly what you did, Spock,’ Jim said. For a moment, the pretense fell. Then, just as swiftly it was back in place. ‘You never know when a Vulcan’s excited until it’s _almost_ too late, if you know what I mean.’

‘If you require a break from the festivities,’ the Deltan ambassador began.

‘You know, we _might just_ ,’ Jim said. He did not agree so quickly as to be rude; rather, the impression he managed to convey was one of gratitude that the Deltan ambassador had thought of, and then made, such a clever suggestion.

Even though Spock was fairly certain Jim had planted the idea in his mind as surely as if he had worked out a method of human telepathy.

Such was the force of Jim’s natural charisma. The ways in which it worked were both confounding and often inspiring of awe. Even Spock could not count himself among the immune to its charms, although he was at least aware of those times when he was being influenced.

The Deltan ambassador did not have Spock’s advantage of experience.

He was still holding fast to Jim’s shoulder when Jim began to stand, resulting in a momentary loss of balance between them. His sharp sense of hearing informed him there were one or two interested parties already beginning to whisper about the captain’s engagement to his Vulcan first officer and, by Spock’s calculations, it would not take long before the very same news reached Doctor McCoy at the bar.

Perhaps Jim was right. It was unlike him to cut a party short without good reason.

‘We are grateful for your hospitality,’ Spock remembered, in advance of being hustled to private quarters.

Jim had the presence of mind not to take his hand, touching his arm through his sleeve, a fact for which he found himself, however briefly, irrationally thankful.

‘The seating arrangements for tomorrow will reflect this conversation,’ the Deltan ambassador promised.

‘What the hell does _that_ mean?’ Jim asked, under his breath.

‘I believe we shall be placed together to dine by one another’s side, as is the earth custom with those publicly affianced,’ Spock replied.

‘Oh, of course; as is the earth custom with those affianced.’ Jim’s fingers tightened; Spock had reason to believe the motion was involuntary. ‘So was that some kind of _Vulcan_ custom I don’t know about with those _not_ affianced, Spock?’

They could not all benefit, Spock thought, from a singular gift of extemporaneous brilliance. His actions could not reflect Jim’s, had their situations been reversed. But as Spock had not been the one flirting that evening, they would never have cause to test that theory.

‘ _Anyway_ ,’ Jim said, as the gossip behind them spread at approximately the same speed as sound, ‘we’ve got a lot to discuss when we get to the _honeymoon suite_...honey.’

Spock considered as they left the fundamentals of nicknames—and why it was he preferred the latest to sweetheart, though neither were titles he had held previously, or ever suspected himself capable of holding.

*


	2. II.

A stroke not of luck but probability prevented the inevitable conversation from taking place immediately, as Doctor McCoy was awaiting them upon their return to private quarters. Despite the brandy he had enjoyed throughout the night, he appeared in the customary spirits of a human male charged with the task of preserving the well-being of individuals inclined to place themselves in danger with predictable frequency.

This was Spock’s diagnosis, though McCoy had already proven himself to be against any external prescription or even suggested treatment.

‘Well, now,’ McCoy said, as Jim released his grip on Spock’s fingers to rub the sweat on his neck instead, ‘if it isn’t the joyous couple themselves. Felicitations and all that. You’ll forgive me, gentlemen, if I forego picturing our resident Mr. Logic over there getting down on one knee to pop the old question in favor of asking what in _red hot hell_ the two of you were thinking back there?’

Jim glanced Spock’s way—unperturbed and undeterred as any fine captain would be, no matter how hazardous the present location. ‘I’m thinking Bones here is wondering what’s gotten _into_ you, Spock,’ he said finally. ‘Care to enlighten the poor doctor?’

‘During tonight’s meal,’ Spock began, as McCoy’s complexion mottled varying shades of pink and red, ‘you ran the risk of disrupting our peaceful mission of cultural exchange by insulting the Deltan ambassador, Captain. Having sensed his mounting ire in response to your...demeanor with his intended, I could not allow you to endanger the Federation’s prospects with the Deltans or complicate matters on Delta IV.’

‘So you _proposed_ , man?’ McCoy, Spock noted, pronounced _proposed_ as he had intended to pronounce _prurient_ earlier that evening.

‘I did not propose,’ Spock replied.

‘He _implied_ a proposal,’ Jim explained. ‘A past proposal. A proposal that had already taken place. Don’t burst anything the Enterprise’s best doctor’s going to need, Bones. ...Might offend somebody if you stained a curtain, not to mention. Wouldn’t want to see what Spock’d have to pull to get us out of the jam _then_.’

‘Given the nature of how Deltans regard human sexual practices, the most likely opportunity to avoid incident was to use my knowledge that fact to our advantage.’ For some reason, McCoy’s agitation only intensified despite or because of Spock’s maintained calm. ‘...By suggesting the captain and I are currently involved in an intimate fashion, it neutralized the mounting tensions by allowing the Deltan ambassador to feel placated. From his position, he was able to perceive the two of us as being in equal positions, thereby allowing himself to believe that the captain’s flirtations were ultimately without meaning or potential.’

‘See?’ Jim sat in a large Deltan chair, neither looking at Spock or Bones, but a middle distance—common ground—on a far wall, his expression, never simple, currently nigh inscrutable. ‘Romantic as hell, Spock. Quit all that poetry or you’re going to make me blush.’

There was a point of pressure between Spock’s eyebrows and above the bridge of his nose that was amplified during these debriefings—of which there had been too many already.

‘My God,’ McCoy said.

‘As you can see,’ Spock folded his hands behind his back, ‘it was the most logical course of action to take.’

‘Given the circumstances,’ Jim said.

‘Yes, captain. Given the circumstances.’

‘My _God_ ,’ McCoy repeated.

He may well have attempted the trifecta, but a knock on the door to their private quarters provided sufficient interruption.

It was, technically, the captain’s door, and so it was Jim who rose, and Jim who was confronted with the roses upon opening it.

Spock experienced some difficulty in attempting to categorize what he was seeing. It could not in strict honesty be classified as a bouquet. The sheer size and scale—to say nothing of the number of roses involved—would not permit such a description. And yet, an _arrangement_ seemed too vague.

‘The ambassador’s regards,’ said the roses. Or rather, the Deltan who’d been completely obscured behind the flowers.

Reluctantly, Spock allowed himself the non-specific mental term _abundance_ to describe what a Deltan delegate was now easing in through the narrow doorway; it had been built for function and efficiency and _not_ unnecessarily elaborate displays of romance. A few scarlet petals dropped to the pristine floor of Jim’s private quarters. Spock’s olfactory perception became clouded by a perfume that might have been pleasant, had it been introduced in a subtler, less overpowering dose.

Yes; it was an abundance of roses.

Human rhetoric might have termed it a mountain.

‘Well, would you look at that, Spock?’ Jim’s expression had not changed. ‘I mention roses at dinner and now, here they are. You hear about Deltan hospitality… Give the ambassador my thanks, would you? What a stand-up fellow. Now _that’s_ generosity.’

There was a calculated amusement in his eyes that others might have taken for innocent pleasure, but Spock was not ‘others’.

Jim did not calm in the face of that which he did not understand. He dove in, often using both hands to tear matters apart until he had come face to face with the heart of them. It was not in his nature to be content with mere observation. The tactic to which he had adhered in the face of Spock’s rash action could therefore only be the first part of a larger reaction.

It was not this stage but its evolution that troubled Spock. He could not qualify yet how Jim might react once the shock and novelty had worn off—and time had not yet proven the roses’ effect on how long the novelty could last.

‘Looks like somebody’s trying to make sure I get lucky tonight,’ Jim added, before the Deltan delegate was out the door, but late enough that it could be mistaken for a private comment.

McCoy choked on nothing. Perhaps his own tongue.

‘ _Holy flowering hell_ ,’ he began, before stopping to collect his thoughts. It was fortunate the doctor did not suffer from a blood pressure condition, although his current state of good health did not occlude the possibility for future concerns. ‘ _Jim_ —’

‘The captain’s point, however crude, may well be insightful,’ Spock said. Timely intervention was not a skill to be employed once, then thoughtlessly discarded. It was honed, like anything else. He was experiencing a great opportunity for its practice on Delta IV.

‘Oh, _may it?_ ’ Jim asked.

‘Yes.’ It was not Spock’s duty to explain himself, but he found it necessary to respond to the unspoken discontent in the captain’s tone. A disconcerting precedent. He would examine later, once the more immediate issue had been settled. ‘Your display with Fyora may have left the ambassador feeling vulnerable regarding his own position. Therefore, he may have deemed it prudent to achieve a certain personal security by assuring himself that your attentions would be…elsewhere tonight.’

‘With you,’ Jim clarified. ‘My—oh, god, Spock. My _fiancé_. You really couldn’t have come up with anything else?’

‘I have already explained why that deception in particular is the one I deemed most suitable,’ Spock said. ‘If you find you need to hear it repeated—’

Retreading ground that had already been covered was a waste of resources, or at least a waste of everyone’s time.

Jim’s nose wrinkled. Then his entire face contorted a brief half-second before he sneezed into the crook of his elbow.

It was as logical a retort as any he had previously made. Spock found himself relieved that this one at least did not require instantaneous response.

None that he could provide, in any case.

McCoy, on the other hand, had his vitals scanner out before Jim had the opportunity to wipe his nose. ‘Romance? Romance, my ass,’ he said, the familiar beep and pulsing hum of the scanner entering the silence Jim’s sneeze left in its wake. ‘Even without the thorns—and would you look at the size of them?—these damn things are an unqualified _menace_. Anything in that big head of yours about Deltan _rose assassination_ , Spock?’

‘I can hardly emphasize enough, doctor, that the Deltans are a highly intelligent race and would never jeopardize—’

‘Never mind. Forget I even asked. What _was_ I thinking?’ McCoy tapped the scanner against the palm of his hand, then returned to his examination, as Jim’s face contorted. What appeared at first to be a further reaction soon revealed itself to be nothing more than an attempt at reigning in a second sneeze. The attempt proved successful; Jim hiccupped, rather than allowing it to burst forth like a surprise attack on the already bereaved McCoy. A valiant effort passing unremarked—though not unnoticed. Spock included it in his mental tally of the day’s events. ‘That makes _another_ allergy, Jim. At this point, it’s my duty as ship doctor to ask: Is there anything you _aren’t_ allergic to?’

‘Vulcans, apparently,’ Jim replied. He glanced Spock’s way. Spock met his eyes for no longer than was necessary or appropriate, before straightening and re-assigning his focus elsewhere.

Difficult, given the abundance—no, over-abundance—of floral distractions. A few of the stems had ribbons. Jim snuffled and wiped the back of his sleeve under his nose.

‘It’s the pollen.’ McCoy had surrendered, no longer scanning Jim’s vitals, taking stock of the roses instead, which could no more wriggle or balk under his survey than they could leave the room of their own accord. ‘I can give you a shot for it, Jim, but that won’t do much good if these... _things_ aren’t moved out right away.’

‘Thanks for volunteering, Bones,’ Jim said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a real Georgia peach to offer yourself for cleanup duty. I won’t forget this.’

‘Damn it, Jim,’ Bones replied. ‘I’m a _doctor_ , not a florist.’

Then, with more zeal than professionalism demanded, he stuck Jim with an injection and returned the needle to his jacket in a single, practiced motion.

Jim rubbed his upper arm with a grimace. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually _enjoyed_ that, Bones.’

‘More than I’m going to enjoy moving ten tons of congratulatory roses, I can tell you that,’ McCoy said.

‘For your edification, I estimate the likely weight of the entire display somewhere closer to a total of a mere fifty pounds, doctor,’ Spock informed him.

The look McCoy gave him was neither grateful nor relieved, either of which it should have been. The likelihood of a single human moving ten tons of roses without injury was exponentially lower than a mere fifty pounds of the same. The statement had been intended as one of hope, yet when McCoy wrapped his arms around the base of the display, he was still grumbling.

‘And, uh, make sure nobody sees you making off with that, will you, Bones?’ Jim added as the door slid open at McCoy’s back. ‘Wouldn’t want to undo all the excellent logic Spock’s laid down by compromising the...veracity of my first officer’s recent claims. Nicest gift anybody ever gave me, alien or otherwise. These Deltans sure know how to make a husband-to-be feel special. ’

‘ _Veracity_ ,’ McCoy repeated. ‘I’ll veracity the two of you when I’m through with this.’

‘A curious locution, doctor,’ Spock began.

The door slid shut in front of him, catching a single rose before the lock code was initiated. The bloom fell to the floor with the rest of the petals.

‘Nah, don’t clean ‘em up, Spock.’ Jim retrieved the blossom, still intact, though he held it at a distance from his nose. ‘Strewn petals all over... Almost like it could be our future honeymoon suite.’

‘Captain.’

‘If you pretend like you don’t understand what that means, Spock, I’m gonna make you eat this.’ Jim held up the rose.

An improbable threat.

‘I was merely going to inform you,’ Spock said, ‘that my understanding of human social customs with regard to engagement is…limited, at best.’

‘So why are we _human_ engaged, then?’

Spock cleared his throat. He had not found the opportunity to partake in refreshment before intervening on behalf of diplomacy, and he had done a good deal of talking since then.

‘I believe the complexities of Vulcan sociology more difficult to grasp than those of modern humanity. In addition, as humanity is itself a diverse and widely-varied species, it would be more difficult to verify a codified account of what traditions they deem it necessary to uphold.’

Jim blinked. There was a mild redness present in the sclerae of both his eyes, but other than that he did not seem to be overly suffering from the lingering pollen of the Deltan ambassador’s gift. McCoy’s shot, however unwelcome, was doing its job.

‘So—and I wanna be clear here—you _factored in_ the possibility that we’d need to lie up a storm in order to sell this?’

Spock weighed the value of the statement and did not find it wanting.

‘You are possessed of an ability to be singularly convincing when occasion demands it of you,’ he said. ‘Even going so far as to convince _yourself_ of the veracity of your statements.’ Jim mouthed _veracity_ along with him, a moment of such acute perception that it left Spock momentarily lost, straining for his follow-up. ‘…In the event that you became carried away, I thought it best to have a built-in failsafe, since, as I have already stated: my own knowledge on the subject is regretfully incomplete.’

‘Yeah, what’s up with that, anyway?’ Jim set the rose down on the small table he’d claimed for a desk. ‘You can’t tell me you’ve never had a reason to look into human romantic traditions, Spock.’ A smile spread unexpectedly over his face, lifting the weight from his shoulders. ‘Which brings me to my— Spock, _Uhura’s_ gonna have to hear about this.’

‘Lieutenant Uhura will understand the necessity for the deception just as I have,’ Spock said.

‘Yeah, but can I be there when you tell her?’ Jim folded his arms over his chest. He did not seem entirely at peace with the course of events but peace was not a state of mind he often achieved or even sought after. ‘No, as your captain—as your fiancé—I’m telling you right now, I _have_ to be there.’

‘Whatever you are hoping to witness, you will no doubt find yourself disappointed.’

It seemed only prudent to inform him, lest he be led astray by anticipation. Spock had heard, as detailed, with hyperbole, by McCoy, just a sampling of the reactions offered whenever Jim decided to transfer his attentions from one woman to the next. Apparently, the idea of life without him was cause for considerable distress among certain parties, not all of them human.

Spock was confident that Nyota would weather the deprivation of his attention for the duration of their stay on Delta IV with considerably more grace. They were, after all, professional colleagues first and foremost.

Jim’s expression did not fall; however, his high spirits were visibly dampened.

‘So what you’re telling me is: you threw me _the_ biggest cockblock of _all time_ on a planet full of experimental sex freaks and I don’t even get to see your girlfriend yell at you for it?’

‘Lieutenant Uhura’s wrath is of the quiet variety,’ Spock said. ‘She would not yell.’

It was not vital for him to share the information—yet, when confronted with the situation as Jim had framed it, Spock felt strangely compelled to offer him something. In his opinion, the captain would not suffer unnecessarily from being deprived of the ability to engage in purely sexual banter with his diplomatic counterparts.

And yet, Jim worked hard. It was not for Spock to decide in what fashion he chose to alleviate his personal stress.

He had deprived Jim of something, so it felt only fair to grant him some portion of the information he so desperately sought.

Spock knew his hypothesis had been correct when Jim’s smile turned downright delighted.

‘So, silent treatment.’ He rubbed his chin, contemplative. ‘All right. Yeah, I can live with that. The question is—can _you_?’

‘It will not impact negatively on my ability to function. Inevitably, Uhura will have cause to speak again, when she is ready.’

‘Wow,’ Jim said. ‘ _Wow_. Okay. Boy, am I glad I’m not _actually_ married to you, Spock. Or about-to-be-married to you.’ He paused to shift his focus to his left eye, rubbing that in turn, then blinking, blearily, no fewer than three times. ‘Because if I think you’re a cockblock _now_...’

‘Another colloquial expression; not one even the doctor has utilized in my presence or to my knowledge.’

‘...You want a definition, Spock?’ Spock waited. It had been, to his knowledge, obvious. ‘Well, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Cock: blocked. I can’t _believe_ this is how my night’s ending up.’

‘Had you comported yourself less intimately with the Deltan ambassador’s—’

‘I was being _friendly_ , Spock,’ Jim said.

‘We are friends.’ A statement of fact; humans, Spock had determined, required frequent reminders of what they already knew. ‘That was a level of intimacy beyond friendship. I did as necessary to preserve the integrity of the mission.’

‘Usually, when people get _human_ married, Spock,’ Jim said, his tone bordering on dry, ‘they say something about each other’s eyes first.’

‘Your eyes are troubling you.’ Another statement of fact, which caught Jim in the middle of rubbing his left eye once more. ‘They are currently red around the whites, either due to your allergic reaction or, less likely though still possible, to the anti-allergen with which McCoy injected you a few minutes ago. If the symptoms have not improved by next morning, local standard time, then as first officer I will recommend further examination of your vitals.’

Jim blinked, then shook his head. He was smiling, but the expression possessed multiplicities of interpretive value. ‘You’re going to have to sleep here tonight, you know. Under the...’ He gestured, once—as though words were tangible, to be grasped from the air and placed in the awaiting sentence. ‘... _ruse_ we’ve established.’

‘Deltans are intrigued by human practices and traditions, especially those which fall under the realm of interpersonal relationships.’ Spock paused. ‘...It should not prove difficult to keep up appearances without violating their expectations, as they will be limited.’

‘Still...’ Jim circled to the back of the nearest couch, resting his palms against it, then leaning the majority of his weight forward. Relaxed but, Spock believed, still observant. ‘...I mean, they’re going to expect _certain_ things.’

Spock swallowed. ‘Such as?’

Jim’s smile continued to evolve. ‘Well, for one thing, you’re going to have to spend the night here. In this room. With me. An oversight, giving you quarters of your own. We can hide the roses, Spock, but there are still going to be thorns.’

Spock lifted a brow and Jim leaned back, holding up both hands.

‘Yeah, I know—that sounded too close to _Bones_ for a moment, didn’t it? Don’t worry, Spock; that’s not a sobering glimpse into our future together.’ Jim turned his back, hand against the nape of his neck, then made to remove his captain’s shirt. ‘I won’t turn into Leonard McCoy right before your Vulcan eyes, I can promise you that.’

Spock turned aside. ‘The bed,’ he proposed, ‘will be yours, of course. There are couches here that will serve; as captain, your rank is higher, therefore making it highly inappropriate to supplant your claims to all the comforts this room has to offer.’

‘Uh-huh.’ The captain’s shirt landed over the back of the couch. Jim cracked his neck from one side to the other, heading for the bathroom. ‘Just don’t take too long in the shower, all right, honey? If you do, this little thing between us... It’s never going to work out.’

‘I can assure you, captain,’ Spock began, ‘that time wasted in the shower when the Deltans are currently dealing with a strain on their water resources would be irresponsible and unforgiveable on a mission such as ours.’

Jim turned, momentarily, over a fading bruise on his shoulder—where he had been thrown against the captain’s chair on the bridge during a particularly difficult warp transition, the subject of which had been cause for an extended period of contention between Sulu and Spock. ‘Good thing we’re involved then, Spock,’ he said. ‘If it turns out we’ve got to conserve water resources, we could always shower together.’

*


	3. III.

Spock’s sleep was nothing to remark upon, being neither too deep nor too restive. It was of standard length and uninterrupted by dreaming.

He awoke to minor seismic activity occurring in his vicinity. His body tensed and his eyes opened—only to find Jim’s face looming large in his field of vision.

There was no earthquake. Jim had been kicking the couch.

‘Oh, good,’ he said. ‘You’re up.’

Spock opened his mouth, then closed it again, and elected to refrain from speaking his mind. The hour was 0500, which left a generous margin before their diplomatic talks with the Deltans were set to begin. It was something of a surprise to note that the captain was both already awake and dressed for the day, a state that Spock could only claim in half, if at all.

‘If there has been a change in mission perimeters,’ Spock began, ‘you had only to inform me through reasonable means.’ He measured the inference required, then added, ‘I am not a heavy sleeper.’

‘Nah.’ Jim waved him off. Then, to Spock’s dismay, he perched on the arm of the couch nearest his pillow. ‘The Deltans sleep late—most likely because they’re sleeping off all the _amazing sex_ they had the night before. Which—thanks for saving me from that, by the way. I’m _super_ grateful.’

Spock rubbed his eyes and maneuvered himself into a sitting position further from Jim, the better to see him.

‘Had you chosen a more fitting partner with which to engage in—’

‘ _Believe_ me, Spock, next time? I’m reading the name tags.’

Since none of the members of the Deltan diplomatic party had arrived bearing tags of identification or otherwise, Spock filed the expression away as another of Jim’s turns of phrase.

Then, they became briefly involved in a staring contest, during which Spock attempted to discern why Jim had woken him two hours prior to the start of their scheduled daily events.

Human stubbornness was a thing to be admired in its proper capacity, but it could not often match up against Vulcan patience.

‘So.’ Jim crossed his legs ankle over knee and settled in. ‘How’d you sleep? Because you see, that’s, like, one of the _first_ things they’re going to ask us. And when they do ask us, they’re _probably definitely_ not going to be talking about _actual_ sleeping. So if you say you have a crick in your neck from this shitty couch or whatever, then it’s going to reflect poorly on my performance, you see what I’m saying?’

Spock’s answer, though it had not yet been required, _had_ been planned around his sleeping arrangements. All calculations going forward would have to factor Jim in as well. They had not shared the shower the night before, but from the intimate relationship he had admitted to sharing with the captain, it would not be at all out of the ordinary for the Deltans to expect they would have spent the night sharing a bed. Not sleeping together and then deeply sleeping together, in that order.

‘I trust that the Deltan ambassador has more pressing concerns than our private life, Captain.’ Spock stretched, then frowned. He _was_ experiencing what Jim had termed a ‘crick’ in his neck, not common to Vulcans, as they did not regularly sleep on couches. ‘I do not believe they will inquire.’

‘Spock,’ Jim said, ‘you’re talking about the same people who sent _fifty pounds_ of _roses_ to my room. _Our_ room. To put us in the _mood.’_ His eyes were clear, his patter rapid. He’d recovered from his allergens admirably. Spock was almost disappointed. ‘Of course they’re gonna ask. What’s more, they’re gonna want _details_.’

‘Details,’ Spock repeated.

For this eventuality, he found himself inadequately prepared.

True, his relationship with Uhura had yielded a certain experience in human expectations of romantic association, but all such matters had been kept, as jointly agreed-upon, private. The notion of _discussing_ the intimate moments he spent with a significant other with parties not involved seemed the antithesis of romance, not to mention what a private relationship stood to offer.

Privacy was intimacy. A logical connection.

Likewise, Spock had never once experienced the urge to share what had passed between his fingertips and Jim’s on the engineering deck of the Enterprise, finger to finger and palm to palm against the glass. He did not think he ever would. The moment belonged to them and no one else.

However, if the details in question were fabricated…

‘Uh oh,’ Jim said. ‘Did I blow your Vulcan mind? Are you—you’re not _picturing_ it, are you?’

‘Vulcans do not lie, Jim,’ Spock replied.

‘So you keep telling me.’ Jim had relaxed again, keen eyes focused on Spock’s face. After all this time, he still believed that, with enough active attempts, he would be able to read it. Perhaps that was why he visited it with more attention than pre-mission briefs. ‘And yet you did an _incredible_ impression of somebody who _could_ lie just yesterday, when you put your hand on my shoulder— _nice_ touch, by the way; Vulcan possessive thing, kind of like the nerve pinch but not, _really_ sold it to the ambassador—and said we were _engaged_.’

‘Intended,’ Spock corrected.

‘ _Affianced_ ,’ Jim added, drawing the word out long and slow, like McCoy on a bad day.

‘All relative terms for the same state of being.’

‘State of being,’ Jim agreed, ‘which happens to be a big ol’ Vulcan fib, my friend. Possibly _the_ biggest. Anyway, the thing is, a giant bouquet of romantic roses like the one we got last night doesn’t exactly come cheap. Believe me, I know. I’ve never sent any, and that’s _why_ I know.’ He was active, vibrant, as he became most commonly in the captain’s chair during hostile negotiations with an enemy ship. He came alive—metaphorically—when there were massive phaser cannons trained on the Enterprise and his reaction now was comparable to that intensity, despite the lack of active firepower present. Spock’s phaser was, as diplomatic missions required, set merely to stun. ‘You see, I’ve been going through my mental library on Deltan intel since we got the special delivery, and suddenly I’m remembering—all kinds of things, Spock. How much _fun_ they have when they’re watching humans engage in their silly human customs. Like we’re the dolls in one big dollhouse to them. I’m betting they get a kick out of playing with us. And, as you and I both know, a happy ambassador is... Well, I can’t think of anything better. ...For the prime directive, that is.’

It was an impassioned speech and Spock alone had witnessed it.

Jim held up one hand and assumed the position of a shrug. ‘You gotta admit, Spock,’ he concluded, ‘they knew roses were our flower and they were looking to encourage a mood. Kinky little aliens. Wish more races were like them, honestly.’

‘I am not surprised to hear that,’ Spock replied, ‘given Doctor McCoy’s assessment of your attitude in regards to sexual encounters.’

‘Say it again,’ Jim said. ‘ _Sexual encounters_. This must’ve been how you won me over. That and the thing about my—what was it? Red-rimmed, sickly, oozing eyes?’

‘They are no longer a concern.’ Spock had indeed been quick to ascertain Jim’s recovery; it had been one of his first actions upon waking. ‘Doctor McCoy will not be required to prepare and administer a second shot.’

‘You’re gonna have to work with me on this one, Spock,’ Jim said, ‘or we’re gonna go out there and present the opposite of a united front. Starfleet regulation, man. Crew’s gotta act as one. If I say something, I need to know you’re gonna back me up, instead of leave me hanging.’

‘I would not leave you hanging,’ Spock assured him. ‘As first officer, it has and always will be my duty to...back you up, captain.’

Jim pursed his lips, sighed, then—despite his sigh—grinned. ‘Well, that’s better. I’m just saying, if I tell the Deltans what they wanna hear—and given their attitudes, they’re gonna want _plenty_ of detail—I can’t have you blowing our cover.’

‘Detail,’ Spock repeated.

Jim pursed his lips even tighter. ‘ _Detail_ ,’ he confirmed. ‘Down and dirty. I’ve gotta _dish_. See, the thing about this reserved Vulcan exterior is that it hides a truth not many get the chance to know.’

‘Hm,’ Spock said.

‘You’re a passionate guy,’ Jim continued. ‘Singularly passionate. You keep it secret because of just how much of it is you’ve got inside you, and only a special few... Only _they’re_ lucky enough to see that.’

Jim tapped the front of Spock’s blue shirt, directly over the Starfleet insignia, for emphasis.

His eyes were no longer red-rimmed, as Spock had verified; they were, however, a brighter blue than usual, born of excitement that nevertheless may have been feverish. Spock was no doctor, nor was he an expert on human physiology. Jim did not appear ill but there was a heat on his cheeks that bespoke an internal elevation of temperature.

‘Jim,’ Spock began.

‘Oh, _baby_.’ Jim leaned closer, encouraged perhaps by what he saw as a show of solidarity. His finger slipped down along the curve of the insignia over Spock’s chest. ‘Say it again.’

Spock experienced—and just as swiftly overcame—the sudden urge to lean away from his captain. He held his ground as he had been trained. ‘Do _all_ human endearments infantilize the recipient? I fail to see how one’s formative years inspire the oft-referenced ‘mood’.’

‘So you don’t like baby.’ Jim sighed. His shoulders slumped. It was as if Spock had unwittingly struck a keen blow to his resilient ego. ‘I was having pretty good luck with _honey_ , though, wasn’t I?’

‘Moreover, what is this common link between affection and sugar?’ Spock tried again.

‘Oh! Sugar,’ Jim said. ‘That’s a good one. Almost forgot to add it to the list. _Very_ helpful, Spock.’

It was not the clarification Spock had been seeking. He leveled Jim with a look he had found to be particularly effective in the past, raising first one eyebrow, then the other. It was a cumulative effect. Anticipation and accumulation.

‘Come on, I don’t _know_ , Spock.’ Jim at last relented in his assault on Spock’s personal space. ‘I didn’t make up the rules, so don’t look at me like I did. Something about being sweet, probably. Sweet on you. It’s a whole thing. What do they say on Vulcan?’

‘We have no reason to classify a mate as either sweet _or_ sour,’ Spock said.

‘A _mate_ ,’ Jim echoed. The look on his face suggested he was enjoying both Spock’s discomfort and the chance to glean rare knowledge directly from the source. Vulcan mating rituals were, by necessity, shrouded in secrecy. More now than ever, after the destruction of their homeworld. Yet regardless of the subject, Jim’s mind was always primed for the chance to learn. And, admittedly, it _was_ less taxing than the other opportunities Spock had observed Jim was always primed for. ‘So that’s what you’d call me? Your mate? That’s downright archaic, Spock. Almost— _primal_. Okay, sure. I like it.’

Whether he liked it or not was immaterial. The term was not strictly accurate.

Were Spock to categorize their relationship in Vulcan terms, he would say that Jim was _t’hy’la_. But the complexities of that term would be lost on all but another of his kind. As he had stated before the Deltans that their status defined by human precepts, it stood to reason that theirs would be a relationship comprised largely of human traditions.

‘I do not—’ Spock paused to correct course. ‘I _shall_ not respond to baby. Or sugar. Or sweetheart. Or anything else that implies incompetence or... _ingredients_.’

‘Except honey,’ Jim reminded.

The point of pressure at the center of Spock’s brow was beginning to throb. This was the quickest progression of symptoms from unconscious to unbearable that he had yet experienced.

‘ _If_ the exigencies of the situation call for an exception, then…’

He could not bring himself to allow such a thing explicitly. But Jim would read between the lines as he always did. On occasion, it was a trait that did less harm than good.

‘Very sporting of you, Spock.’ Jim clapped him on the shoulder, harder than seemed strictly friendly. It was a habit of his, one Spock had observed him engaging with other members of the crew. It had begun on the eve of Captain Pike’s death; Jim had leaned heavily on Spock’s shoulder and then was gone, whatever strength he had gleaned taken with him. Yet none seemed to incur as much force as Spock himself. ‘Now go wash up, I want my lovey dovey cuddlebear to be looking his very best before I prime him on human erogenous zones.’

It was, Spock reflected, the beginning of a very long morning.

*

But it was an even longer afternoon, as Spock soon discovered his assessment of Deltan curiosity had been a gross underestimation.

In their talks, they covered the drought, then the ensuing water rations that would come into effect for Delta IV’s summer cycles. The Federation was willing to pledge assistance, naturally, and Starfleet was there to work out the details of an arrangement beneficial to all.

That was the sum of what Spock managed to absorb before Jim brushed the little finger of his right hand against Spock’s left, where both were lying idle against the meeting table.

Spock’s shoulders stiffened. No fewer than four Deltans were immediately aware in the shift of personal atmosphere. Their interest in the drought and its effects on Deltan economy proved insignificant in comparison to their interest in the relations between a human captain and his half-Vulcan first officer; soon, aid talks had collapsed altogether, and Jim was answering questions with precision and aplomb. An admirable volley—but he had begun discussing Spock’s ears.

Or rather, he had begun discussing how he would not discuss them.

‘No; I’m sorry, I can’t answer any questions about the ears,’ Jim was in the midst of saying, ‘because I’m not going to deprive any one of you from learning the truth about their rumored sensitivity for yourselves. It’s one of those things—I mean, I almost died from curiosity, and I’m not the type who advocates patience as far as Vulcans are concerned, but in the end, the wait was worth it.’

Spock blinked, maintaining focus on an unoccupied chair across the table. No Deltans remained on the other side; they had gathered in congregation around Jim, and around Spock by association, their eyes bright and their laughter ever brighter.

‘Do they wiggle? I mean, I think that falls under the category of answering questions about the ears.’

Spock’s ear twitched.

‘It’s less a voluntary reaction; scout’s honor. Okay, okay—you can tell that easy I’m no scout? It’s not _just_ the ears that react, but that’s all I’m saying.’

Jim’s pinky skimmed Spock’s knuckles, the barest of touches which imparted humor, joy, delight, and other frivolous pleasures. Surface-level; they lacked depth. They were lightyears away from the gravity of engineering, thoughts in staccato, paused and shattered by a failing heartbeat, every emotion clinging to breath. Bare shadows in the darkness of fear.

‘And yeah,’ Jim showed no signs of stopping despite his promises to do so, ‘he _is_ green where you’d think he’d be green. First time it happened I was _this_ close to calling the ship doctor when I realized.’

Jim’s hand covered Spock’s. ‘I’m not embarrassing you, am I, honey?’

‘Embarrassment,’ Spock replied, though he missed a beat, ‘is not an emotion in which Vulcans regularly indulge.’

‘Indulge, huh?’ Jim glanced over his shoulder, then back to the nearest Deltan. ‘Hey. _Speaking_ of indulgence, who do I have to thank for those roses yesterday evening, huh? It _really_ brought us back to our first night together.’

Spock had never once wished for unannounced catastrophe to strike. The cost of a distraction via crisis was far too high. Nor did he expect the ground to open and swallow him, a Klingon air-strike to intrude on the relative peace of the day, or a tribble infestation to break out on board the Enterprise. Any one of these things had an equally low probability of occurring, nor did Spock desire that they would. Yet there were pastimes preferable to his current involvement in discussing a fictional relationship rapidly growing in notoriety and renown.

‘How many times _was_ it, that first night, Spock?’ Jim relished the name as though there were something inherently sweet about it. The _honey_ , therefore, was clearly implied. ‘He’s got the head for numbers. Vulcans, right?’

‘I do not believe I would be able to offer an accurate number,’ Spock replied, which was a deeper truth than any of their audience was aware.

‘It all sort of blurred together, that’s the thing.’ Jim leaned closer. They were shoulder to shoulder—a united front. The warped distinction had not gone beyond Spock’s notice. ‘I’ve sampled some of the finest this galaxy has to offer, but this one...’ Jim sighed. ‘This was different. Special. _Way_ more than I bargained for. Once you’ve had something like that, there’s no going back.’

‘And your rings?’ One of the Deltans had noticed Jim playing with Spock’s fingers. ‘That is an aspect of the human engagement tradition, is it not?’

Jim sucked his breath into his chest, then let it out slowly. ‘Oh, the rings? The rings. The rings...’ He never stalled for long, though he had his moments. ‘Yeah, of course; the ring. Keen eyes there. _And_ beautiful. You know, that’s actually how Spock here won me over—talking about my eyes. He said they were red-rimmed—I was having an allergic reaction, if I recall—and I realized it meant he’d noticed them. My eyes. What they looked like. That he cared. But you were asking me about the rings—which, it’s a funny story, actually. You’re gonna, you’re gonna laugh when you hear it.’

‘Prior to an opportunity for selecting an appropriate ring,’ Spock said, ‘the captain suffered from a sudden swelling of the hands and was committed to medical in advance of any further symptoms. Naturally, the edema made it impossible to properly size a band.’

The anecdote was not strictly untrue. Jim _had_ experienced an adverse reaction to the vaccination for Melvaren mud fleas and the incident _had_ occurred before they’d had occasion to seek out human engagement rings—if only because such an occasion had yet to arise. Technicalities were well within the Vulcan comfort zone when it came to conveying facts over fiction.

He was not lying.

And Jim was looking at him, mouth open, lips parted. It was too stupid an expression to be deemed affectionate, yet Spock could feel the Deltans’ perception of the moment as something unexpected and charming, in an inferior sense.

They would not feel similarly inclined if they were ever to witness Jim in the midst of an allergy attack. Spock had not been present for the Malvaren mud flea vaccine incident, but corroborating stories from both Nyota and McCoy painted a gruesome picture indeed.

‘Yeah,’ Jim said, while the story gained traction in his mind. ‘Yeah, _allergies,_ you know? Like I was saying. He’s seen all _parts_ of me swell. And not always the fun ones. Still, he sticks around. I ask you, is that not devotion?’

It seemed, if the common consensus among the Deltans was to be trusted, that it was.

‘Anyway, that was our last chance on Earth before we left on the five year mission.’ Jim shrugged. One of the Deltans appeared moved to tears. ‘Sucks, but what can you do?’

‘Another time, perhaps,’ Spock said. He was more sure of the situation now that topic of conversation had turned from his physical biology to a more human penchant for accessorizing.

‘Sure, but…’ Jim’s expression turned deliberately sincere, eyes round and compelling, a shade of blue favored by humans, if Spock’s understanding was accurate. Baby blue—another infantile description in the most literal sense. ‘I _wanted_ to get him one. Well, the both of us, right? They’d have to match. And maybe it’s just me being a sentimental human, but rings _are_ kinda special. Sure, it might sound stupid, but they’re effective shorthand—lets everyone know you’re taken. _Without_ having to make a big scene.’

That last comment was pointed and cast in Spock’s direction. He felt compelled to defend himself but could not think of a logical way to do so in front of their audience.

Likewise, the captain’s point was not without merit. Not every race would recognize and respect the markers of a human engagement, but the Deltans had a passing knowledge. Coaxing Jim into wearing a ring might have eliminated the need for the pageantry of this particular intervention.

Spock would make note to purchase one for future expeditions.

Jim’s fingers ran over the back of Spock’s hand, then tucked under his palm. Clinically speaking, Spock could not deny the sensation was a pleasant one—it momentarily dislodged him from the absurdity of the conversation taking place and centered him...elsewhere.

‘I admit, I find the sanctity humans bestow upon a mere band of precious metal to be…sentimental, at best,’ Spock said once he had found his voice.

‘That’s just his Vulcan half talking,’ Jim explained, for the benefit of their hosts. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong, that _does_ have its charms, but being all dreamy and impractical _definitely_ isn’t one of them. He probably doesn’t think he deserves a ring.’

‘You misunderstand.’ Spock could feel the ridges of Jim’s knuckles, callused with scar tissue. His skin was cool where it pressed against Spock’s hand; a matter of Vulcan internal temperatures. They were naturally higher than a human’s. ‘Or rather, you mistake my dismissal of rings for a dismissal of the intended feeling behind them. It has always been my perception that a relationship should court fidelity under its own merits, rather than requiring a set of traditional rules to enforce such behavior.’

‘Damn, Spock,’ Jim said.  ‘That was downright romantic.’

A Deltan clapped—just once, but the general applause was implied. Jim winked, mouth turned crookedly at only one side, in a new variety of grin that Spock had not yet classified. He was building a compendium; after all, it might one day prove vital to understand the subtle distinctions in his captain’s repertoire of facial expressions. Such attention to detail was, under the right circumstances, the difference between life and death.

Jim gave Spock’s hand a squeeze. ‘Well, now you know what it’s like,’ he said, stretching one arm in a yawn. ‘Hoo—wow, I _am_ sorry about that, Deltans. That was by _no_ means a comment on the present topic or how much fun I’m having—more of a reflection on how late this one kept me up last night, if anything.’ To emphasize, Jim let his arm settle around Spock’s shoulders. He smelled of the shower he had taken and the crisp Starfleet uniform along with a hint of Deltan perfume that, from certain angles, made Spock’s nostrils flare. ‘Are you—Spock, was that you noticing the cologne I put behind my ear?’

‘It was difficult not to notice it,’ Spock replied.

‘It’s the little things,’ Jim said. ‘Vulcans always pick up on ‘em. Makes you feel pretty damn special. Scrutiny—it _can_ be sexy.’

‘I will have to try it for myself, if I can,’ a Deltan female said. ‘But what of your ceremonial plans?’

Spock swallowed a polite cough. ‘We have made no plans,’ he replied. This was also true. They had made no plans. They would make no plans.

‘Although, it’s not as though I haven’t thought about it sometimes,’ Jim added. ‘Lying there next to him in bed, staring at the ceiling, relaxing after a _passionate_ evening, just...imagining how it’d all go down. I’ve always been partial to a beach setting, myself: waves lapping at the shore, binary suns setting in the distance... McCoy—that’s the ship doctor, old friend of mine; believe he caught _your_ attention just yesterday at the bar? Yeah, don’t give me that innocent look—he’d be my best man, of course. Nobody to give me away, so we’ll have to improvise.’

‘I am certain we could find someone willing to relinquish their claim on you,’ Spock said. ‘Among the crew or elsewhere.’

According to McCoy, there would be no shortage of individuals who qualified.

Jim laced their fingers together. He could not have known—beyond a general assumption—what was implied by the way their knuckles slid each between each, practically gliding; the separation and distribution of weight; the press of warm skin to warmer skin, cool and hot by equal turns, fingers interwoven, tangled, and especially the vulnerable spot where the slanted side of Jim’s blunt thumb nestled in the valley between Spock’s thumb and forefinger and began, very tenderly, to rub, back and forth.

‘You’re blushing, Spock,’ Jim said. His voice had grown simultaneously deeper and lighter in quality.

‘I _have_ always wanted to see a human marriage ceremony for myself.’ Fyora—who had been, Spock noted, unusually silent for the duration of the seemingly interminable conversation—found her voice at last. ‘Captain Kirk of the Enterprise— _we_ have beaches here on Delta IV! They have not even run dry with our drought.’

‘Well, what do you know?’ Jim betrayed nothing. Jim’s hands betrayed nothing. He wore what McCoy had informed Spock some time ago was his ‘poker face,’ also used in situations other than a poker game, despite indications to the contrary.

_Not like your poker face_ , McCoy had seen fit to add. _It’s just your face and that’s all there is to it, isn’t it?_

So it was.

‘A word in private,’ Spock began.

‘Fyora, you Deltan devil,’ Jim said, and Spock could not fault him for paying more attention to their hosts as diplomacy required, ‘are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’

Fyora leaned forward and, as Spock watched, covered Jim’s free hand with both of her own. ‘Our minds think so much alike, do they not?’ she replied.

Spock’s nostrils flared again—though it was not, he had to admit, due to the scent of her perfume.

‘You make a compelling argument, Fyora,’ Jim said.

‘I am no expert in the custom, captain, but I believe the amount of planning necessary for a human matrimonial ceremony would prove too much for the limited time we have here on Delta IV.’ Though Jim’s hand was not slipping from Spock’s grasp, the situation—however metaphorically; however Spock avoided metaphor—was.

‘Not necessarily true,’ Jim admitted. ‘I mean, there’s eloping; there’s romance; there’s _Vegas..._ ’

‘The Vega system would not offer the same revelry as we can provide,’ Fyora said.

Spock could not discern whether her pride was truly wounded, or whether she was a shrewd political analyst, one who had discovered that the best way to get the Starfleet delegation in a giving mood was to first grant their captain a large, personal favor.

Never mind that it was one he could not—and _would not—_ accept.

‘That’s Las Vegas, Nevada, sweetie. Earth.’ Jim’s hands were both occupied, so he could not place one on Fyora’s thigh as he had done the previous night. However, his tone had developed a rejuvenated coyness. Spock wondered whether it was even a conscious decision, or if Jim’s instincts were so keenly honed that their reactions were immediate whenever an attractive specimen came into view. ‘Oh, of _course_. Stupid me, you don’t know about Vegas. So there’s this tradition, right? Well, it’s more like an anti-tradition, and—’

‘Captain,’ Spock said.

There was no proper moment to intervene. In the absence of good timing, moving swiftly and surely was of utmost importance. Spock could not, in all good conscience, interrupt Fyora—or any of the other Deltan diplomats—but his own captain was within the bounds of acceptable interference.  

The longer the topic remained on weddings and their accompanying rituals, Spock’s window of opportunity dwindled. He could not allow idle talk to spin itself into concrete preparations.

Before falling unconscious on the couch in Jim’s private quarters, Spock had requisitioned his PADD to refresh his memory on the basics of advanced human courtship traditions. By all accounts, human weddings were a costly affair. Expensive, _expansive,_ noisy. Filled with friends and relatives, all of them garbed in garments they could scarcely afford and would wear only once, then summarily discard. Planning one took all the cunning and tactical experience of a Starfleet admiral.

And they were legally binding on _all_ Federation planets.

The Deltans could not be encouraged to arrange one.

‘Don’t you just love the way he says that?’ Jim said, evidently finding _something_ to love in all this, though Spock had reason to doubt it had anything to do with the tone he’d indicated. ‘Makes me weak in the knees sometimes, I swear. It’s a good thing I’ve got a chair on the bridge, or else I might fall over. Do Vulcans catch you when you swoon? I’ve never tested the theory, myself.’

‘If I could request a minute of your time,’ Spock pressed, deterred but no less determined.

His tenacity was rewarded when Jim withdrew his one hand from Fyora’s two.

‘I’ll tell you about Vegas another time, Fy. I think you’d like it. Scratch that, what am I saying? I _know_ you would. Call it captain’s intuition.’

‘I shall… What is the human expression?’ Fyora tilted her head, regarding Jim thoughtfully. It was a shapely head, attached to an elegant neck, all traits favored among certain humanoid species. These things had not been noted in her file, although Spock was adding them to the firsthand data he’d collected today. ‘I shall _hold you to that_ , James Kirk.’

‘Please,’ Jim said, ‘call me _captain_.’

The friction of Spock’s chair against the floor made a wrenching sound as he stood. Certain precautionary measures would have to be taken if he were to curtail the wedding arrangements. If Jim was to insist on hindering, rather than helping, then Spock would need to recruit others.

Finally sensing that he was nearing the end of Spock’s patience, Jim proved his skill for last-minute upsets by standing alongside him. He winked when the Deltans sighed, nearly as a collective force.

‘I know, I know. I’m going to miss you ladies, too. But I just can’t say no to that _face._ ’ Jim gestured in Spock’s direction, knowing perfectly well his expression was that of a neutral party. Perhaps he’d instead sensed the tension in Spock’s hand, where Jim’s fingers had settled still against it. ‘You’ll understand too—when you’re lucky find the _one_. We should break for lunch anyway, huh? Nothing makes for good diplomacy more than full bellies and sated… Well. _You_ know.’

‘It is the middle of the day,’ Spock said, before concluding he had just corroborated to the fiction that Jim had taken pains to spin.

‘The middle of a very _good_ day, Spock,’ Jim replied.

This time, when the friendly blow fell from Jim’s palm to his shoulder, Spock was prepared for it.

*


	4. IV.

‘Kirk to Enterprise,’ Jim said, once again in the privacy of their quarters. ‘Kirk to Enterprise. You’re _definitely_ going to want to come in for this one. Anybody home?’

On their return to private quarters, he had—in detail—elucidated the definition of ‘afternoon delight’ and, in the interest of knowledge, Spock had acquiesced to listen. When Doctor McCoy fell in with them, smelling of roses and grimacing like their thorns, he caught the tail end of the description and scoffed so violently it caused him to choke.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve _never_ , Bones,’ Jim said.

‘Not in front of the Vulcan, Jim,’ McCoy replied.

The afternoon’s delight did not fall under its traditional meaning, though it was afternoon, and Jim was delighted.

‘Captain, this is the Enterprise.’ It was Nyota’s voice on their communicator. The tension had returned to the center of Spock’s brow, above the bridge of his nose. ‘Uhura speaking.’

‘U _hura_ ,’ Jim said. Spock recognized this grin; it was large, rare, and devious. ‘My god, perfect. Just the member of my crew I was hoping to talk to. How’s Delta IV looking from up there?’

‘All clear, Captain Kirk. Is there anything we can do for you?’

It was the first time in recorded history that Spock saw sympathy on McCoy’s face. It quickly darkened, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes rolling, mouthing what appeared to be _tough luck; nice knowing you; Jim’ll make a fine eulogy for you, just fine._

‘We’re doing just fine,’ Jim said, a moment of symmetry that was remarkable. ‘Just...peachy. I thought I should tell you, in the interest of an open, honest environment, that the Deltans are _loving_ us, and also, Spock and I got engaged about...oh, I’d say close to eighteen hours ago.’

It had been nineteen. Spock cleared his throat. Jim gave him one thumb up.

‘Kind of a Deltan thing; you know how crazy it gets,’ Jim continued. ‘Nobody’s being chased out of a temple this time, though, so I’d say, all things considered, we’re actually doing pretty good. At least, I’m doing pretty good. How’re you doing, Spock?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ Spock replied.

There was a muffled noise from the other end of the line. McCoy was shaking his head, as he would have done for any other grim prognosis. _The Vulcan’s dead, Jim._ Spock felt his brow lift at the uncharacteristic flight of fantasy and the moment passed, unnerving as it was.

‘Captain Kirk.’ Uhura—potentially distressed, though the exact nature of her tone could not be read without a significant margin for error—was still at the communicator. ‘Captain, would you—could you repeat what you just said one more time?’

‘Getting some feedback up there, Uhura?’ Jim asked. ‘Need to adjust your frequencies?’

Another muffled noise. ‘Just putting you live for the nonbelievers up here. For some reason they’re skeptical that you said—’

‘Let me guess—Scotty?’

‘Present, Captain.’

‘And...Sulu, if you got him away from those flowers of his?’

‘Captain, this is Sulu.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re not letting poor Chekov in on the fun.’

‘Yes, keptin?’

The bridge had assembled. Jim’s enormous grin softened for a moment, a detail McCoy missed under the lowering of his brows. Spock did not miss it. Spock made a point of not missing anything.

‘Well, Uhura heard me the first go around, but it’s high time I shared the good news with the rest of you,’ Jim continued. ‘The rumors _are_ true. I know it might seem sudden, but you know what they say. What happens on Delta IV...’

Chaos did not ensue; Spock had known chaos. He had known it all too well. This was an excited clamor and nothing more. He stood at attention as Jim explained the situation—with many unnecessary flourishes for dramatic effect—statements often punctuated by Doctor McCoy’s additional expostulations and agonized groaning.

‘Now, don’t all congratulate us at once,’ Jim said.

‘These fools are making the damn thing _worse_ ,’ McCoy added. ‘They’re encouraging these Deltans to throw the damn thing right here on the beach!’

‘What’s the matter, Bones?’ Jim clapped his shoulder and Spock considered the gesture—whether it was the same gesture as the one he reserved for Spock or if it possessed different qualities, requiring different measure. ‘Wait, let me guess—sand gets everywhere; you burn easily; and you’re afraid of alien jellyfish. Am I close?’

‘Not even in the same playing field.’ McCoy didn’t elaborate, which indicated Jim had been closer than he was willing to admit.

‘It was not a joint decision to encourage the Deltan proposal of hosting the ceremony,’ Spock pointed out.

At least one member of the landing party deemed it necessary to keep track of events as they happened, in what order, and with what catalysts. Since Jim was occupied with adding to his increasingly-absurd web of lies, and McCoy was occupied with berating everyone in a room who was _not_ bombarding him with low-level telepathic suggestion...

The duty fell to Spock. It was not the first time, nor was it likely to be the last. 

‘Am I hearin’ you right, Captain?’ It was Scotty who recovered first. ‘You and Commander Spock… And you dinnae even invite us to share a drink and _celebrate_ it properly?’

There was a place in Spock’s mind dedicated solely to the reorganization of information. Even treading familiar ground, there was often new perspective to be gained, or new purpose to be found from areas that had already been learned and categorized.

For instance: Montgomery Scott was someone who considered a missed opportunity in sharing drinks far worse a slight than not being present for the news of a friend’s engagement.

A sensible reaction, since the arrangement in question remained, despite efforts to the contrary, fictional. The drinks, had there been opportunity to imbibe them, would have been all too real, just as Montgomery Scott preferred them.

‘Trust me, Scotty,’ Jim said, ‘if we go through with this, I’m putting you in charge of throwing me one _hell_ of a bachelor party.’

‘We will not,’ Spock felt it pertinent to add, ‘be _going through_ with anything.’

‘How did he propose?’ That was Nyota, compounding the problem in a way in which Spock had been given reason to believe she was far too sensible to engage.

He had also observed a discomfiting precedent for the friendship she shared with Jim, as it was centered largely around a mutual airing of their grievances about Spock. It did not seem entirely fair, but Spock had not yet located the source of his criticism in a logical presentation.

‘We’re keeping it vague.’ Jim leaned back against the nearest wall, communicator in the palm of his hand. He favored Spock with a look that, had humans been a race gifted with telepathy, would have sent electrical impulses along the dorsal and ventral roots of Spock’s spinal cord. It seemed designed specifically for provocation. ‘Unless you have any _suggestions_. Come to think of it, I might need an insider’s perspective on all this, Uhura. You should come down here. We can have a sleepover. I mean, not a literal sleepover. No hair-braiding involved and the Deltan embassy thinks me and _Spock_ are having sleepovers every night, if you know what I mean. But we can work something out. Like, say, you tell me all about the private side of our friend Spock, I don’t piss off the Deltan ambassador. We’ll all make out of here smelling like… Well, like roses.’

‘Mother of god,’ McCoy muttered, under his breath but still loud enough to be overheard.

It was a decibel that McCoy often favored for his conversations with Jim, especially when an opinion had not yet been asked for but he found himself unable to keep from expressing one.

The doctor was a man who could not resist self-expression. Perhaps it was a method of distraction, the better to avoid dwelling on his numerous phobias.

‘Oh yeah.’ Now Hikaru Sulu had chimed in. ‘You’ve _gotta_ have a decent proposal story. My mom tells hers every time they have an anniversary. Cries, too.’

‘Anni _ver_ sary stories.’ Jim slapped his thigh while Spock examined his memories for any fault in his service that would have merited this sudden disloyalty from their crew. There _had_ been the suggestion about the external inertia dampeners... Though why Sulu would bear any ill will for Spock’s assistance, Spock did not know. ‘That’s brilliant, Sulu. Thanks. I might be able to hold them off for awhile with more of that stuff.’

‘First date stories are good, too,’ Nyota added.

From her, the betrayal was most keen.

‘And first kisses!’ Scotty added. ‘Who kissed whom, and what they were doing at the time, and whether it happened in the middle of a particularly sensitive calculation that threw off the ship’s trajectory by—what, what is it? What’re you all lookin’ at me like that for? Have _I_ ever miscalculated the ship’s trajectory. No. It’s called _bein’ creative._ Ah, none of you have a fine imaginative mind like this one.’

It would have been better employed, Spock thought, in service to theorems of space-time and dematerialization, the latter of which was not an unwelcome thought at such a time.

‘And ye’ve got to add a little extra something to make it stand out,’ Scotty continued, as though the act of storytelling gave him the same intellectual pleasure as a successful calibration, a new warp core equation, or a finely polished engine. ‘A bit of humor, perhaps. All the best love stories have a little unexpected twist thrown in. Now, let’s see... Ah! I’ve got it. After you two lovebirds sealed the deal with a kiss, you told him, _Beam me up, hotty._ Well, don’t say ye’ve _never_ thought of it! I know _I_ have. Waiting for one of you thick-skulled types to catch on and say it to _me_!’

Laughter followed, as it so often did on the heels of a pun. There were times when the less objectively humorous the wordplay, the louder and more uproarious its audience became—a closed action-and-reaction system inversely proportional to the cleverness of the joke.

The intricacies of human laughter would never cease to prove themselves contrary in every way.

‘Well I’m glad the lot of you are having fun up there,’ McCoy said, bringing gravity back to the matter at last, ‘but what d’you suppose we’re going to do if, before we make it off Delta IV, I’m walking Jim down the Deltan aisle, beach-side, with a damn bouquet of roses and some alien flower-girl scattering petals?’

‘Record it,’ Nyota said. ‘If anyone’s got half a brain to down there. Captain—Jim, is his face doing the thing?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Jim’s eyes swept over Spock’s expression again, with an equal depth of probing concentration as the previous time. Humans were not telepathic; they had no naturally extrasensory inclinations; most could not, as McCoy often suggested, ‘read a room’; and, given the unpredictability and disorder of their minds, this was to everyone’s benefit. It did not, however, make Jim any easier to understand—but Spock had never required easiness, much less asked for it. Organization, yes; a touch of common sense now and then would not have been unappreciated. Yet Spock found neither; instead, he met the blue heat and the twisted grin, a new variation on the old theme, which had yet to accumulate ample evidence of use for a proper definition in the databank. ‘Yeah, Uhura, he’s making it. The one where his eyebrows are higher and—’

‘There’s the wrinkle thing in the center? Yeah. _Oh_ yes. That’s the one. Glad you’re finally having some fun down there, Spock. Finally cutting loose.’

‘I have cut nothing,’ Spock replied.

‘Are you kidding, man?’ McCoy had progressed past the quietly muttering stage to the second and final evolution of his conversational trajectory: a shout. ‘Soon enough you’ll be cutting the damn cake!’

The laughter reasserted itself. Even Jim was bent double over his communicator for a moment, then wiped the corner of his eye with his free thumb. Spock stepped closer, ascertained his eyes were fine and the reaction had not reasserted itself, and found that even McCoy was now stifling the beginnings of a disbelieving grin.

‘Well I’ll be damned,’ he said at last, clapping Jim on the shoulder. ‘Never thought you’d tie the knot, Jim. Thought you were a free rover ‘til the day you died.’

A poor choice of words, Spock thought.

‘Yeah,’ Jim agreed. He looked at Spock for the third time, only the echo of an earlier smile on his face. ‘Maybe that stuff got all...I don’t know, irradiated out of me. You think radiation can do that, Bones?’

‘I didn’t think Spock would ever do anything illogical,’ McCoy replied, ‘and yet, here we are.’

‘As I have already proven, doctor,’ Spock said, ‘my actions were logical within the parameters of a tense diplomatic situation.’

‘He is seriously _always_ like this.’ Again, Nyota’s small betrayals were somehow amplified over the distance between the Enterprise in orbit, and the surface of Delta IV. ‘You’re lucky you even _got_ ‘diplomatic incident’ out of him, Captain.’

‘I’ll take it under advisement, Uhura.’ Jim straightened off the wall. ‘I’ll be in contact. Kirk out.’

Silence settled in the wake of their terminated communication, although Spock had far too much experience with present company to deem that silence permanent. Jim rubbed his chin, knuckles against the faint growth of stubble. It made a rasping sound that Spock would not term disagreeable.

For once, perhaps the first time since their arrival on Delta IV, the captain was deep in thought.

‘Jim,’ McCoy said.

Being a medical officer, it was curious that he often lacked the very same bedside manner Jim had been known to complain of in Spock.

‘Yeah, Bones?’ Jim tucked away his communicator, given new purpose—and new stories to contemplate—thanks to the aid of his loyal crew.

Whatever the moment had been, it had already passed. It acted merely as a pause, before entering whatever warp factor it was that powered Jim Kirk—and his ingenuity. But Spock had observed its brief appearance and he made note of it, in advance of similar behavior in the future.

Matters weighed more heavily on Jim’s shoulders than he allowed them to show. There was always the possibility he had come to consider an angle of this deception that did not bring him pleasure.

McCoy, too, suspected the same. ‘You know if the Deltan ambassador figures out you’ve been yanking his chain, things here _could_ turn sour quicker than a pickled plum in vinegar.’

‘Where do you come _up_ with this stuff?’ Jim asked.

His fascination gave the illusion that it was nothing more than a distraction—and a cheap one at that. But McCoy had no inoculation for the force of Jim’s attention. In this, he was the same as any other individual of lesser intellect who fell under its sway.

‘ _Never you mind_ ,’ McCoy replied. ‘Just—God help me, I can’t believe I’m about to say this. Just _keep_ lyingand make ‘em _good_ , all right? Detailed. And you—yes, _you_ , with the good ideas.’

Spock did not object to the title, only the tone McCoy was employing to phrase it.

‘Yes, doctor?’

‘You _commit_ to this thing, you hear me?’ Despite the leading nature of his phrasing, McCoy did not seem to be referring to Jim as ‘the thing’ in question. ‘Sell the hell out of it, or who knows what unholy diplomatic fuss you’ll kick up. _You_ might not see it as a big deal. Sure, the Deltans are an advanced race. They’re peaceful, they play ball, and they’re more interested in sexual intercourse than they are in bringing down our ships and conquering planets, but you mark my words. _Everyone_ hates being made a fool of. This goes south and it’ll happen in the blink of an eye.’

His eye twitched. A lucky coincidence or a proud dramatic moment, Spock could not determine.

‘All right, Bones.’ Jim had crossed the room before Spock could open his mouth. His hand was on McCoy’s shoulder, not a gesture of friendship but one of suggestion, steering him toward the door. ‘That’s enough. Just relax, would you? Take two bourbon and call me in the morning. Give one of these Deltan women a rose and see what happens.’

‘That’s my advice as a _medical professional_ ,’ McCoy was saying even as Jim shut the door in his face.

Spock found himself caught between two actions, neither of which he could approve of fully. The thought of returning to the second half of their diplomatic negotiations suddenly asserted itself.

For the first time in many years, Spock found himself inadequately prepared.

His mind was as far from resource rationing as it would ever get—lingering on Chief Engineer Scott’s assertion regarding the importance of a first kiss, of all things.

The first kiss he had shared with Nyota had been over a particularly brilliant translation of archaic Cardassion phrasing in the Starfleet Academy archives. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the subsequent kisses. Spock had not known to append special meaning to its existence as ‘the first’ nor that others might have known instinctively to do just that.

‘Uh oh,’ Jim said. ‘What’s with the face? I’ve never seen that one before.’

‘It is my face,’ Spock said. ‘No more and no less. It has not changed.’

‘Well, _yeah_ , but…’ Jim snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve got it. You look like _me_ if I have to say _irrigation initiative_ one more time.’

‘Irrigation initiative,’ Spock repeated. It grounded him. Gravity on Delta IV had met with its bumps along the way, but it was still functioning, as was Spock’s brain, and Jim’s. Despite the interruptions and the uncertainties, there were irrigation initiatives awaiting them.

‘So, no pressure, right?’ Jim grinned, stepping aside to let Spock through the door first. ‘After you, Spock; I _insist_.’

Since he had insisted, Spock acquiesced. The heel of his boot clipped the polished floor. Jim maneuvered from behind him to his side, once more taking his hand. There was pressure in that—of the literal, rather than the metaphorical, category. His fingers gave pressure.

‘I will discuss the irrigation initiatives,’ Spock told him.

‘Sweetest thing you ever said to me, Spock,’ Jim replied.

*

Though Spock had been the primary speaker during the second half of the day’s talks, it was Jim who announced that he was parched, loosening the top clasp of his collar and making for what was known in earth parlance as ‘the minibar.’ Spock observed his actions as he bent over, looking for something he was unable to find, before choosing a suitable substitute and pulling off the top in a practice motion. ‘What’s good enough for healing a doctor,’ Jim said, lifted his bottle in a toast, and drank. ‘Want some? ...Oh, man. Who am I kidding. Of course you don’t. Which is just one more reason I can see for this relationship being long-term.’

The sparkle had returned to his eyes. Already the so-called ‘medicine’ had improved his spirits, though the merit of alcohol’s exact medicinal properties was always in question.

‘Hoo, but I’m not looking forward to the twenty questions act tonight at dinner,’ Jim added, kicking his legs up over the arm of the chair as he sat. He rotated his ankle a full circle in one direction, then did the same to retrace that circle back to the start. Spock heard a joint pop. Jim drank again and sighed. ‘Don’t like to think on my feet while I’m trying to digest. Unless _you’re_ planning to take the heat. Speaking of which—have you thought up a good first-kiss scenario yet?’

‘I have not,’ Spock replied.

He had been otherwise occupied with irrigation initiatives.

Jim wiped something from the corner of his mouth. ‘You know, it might be nothing more serious than Bones’ _eternal_ bad mood, but I’m thinking we might even want to keep a low profile tonight. And, hey, if anybody asks—we were making use of the honeymoon suite, right?’

‘That would not be a lie.’ Spock did not feel relief, but it was gratifying nonetheless to see Jim finally appreciating reason, however late that appreciation had joined them. ‘If we use these quarters at all while managing to avoid enticing Deltan curiosity further, then we have indeed put the room to the best possible use I can imagine.’

‘The best possible use. Yeah. Right.’ Jim rolled the words in his mouth, then did the same with his brandy. ‘Of course. Can’t believe it took me so long to get _logical_ with you.’

‘Still,’ Spock reasoned, ‘you arrived at the appropriate conclusion at last. I believe your human saying is _better late than never_.’

Jim chuckled. The sound had been enriched—but also darkened—by his liquid refreshments.

‘The reason,’ Spock continued, ‘for my failure to decide upon a scenario for the first-kiss anecdotal evidence suggested by Mr. Scott is simple. The matter of irrigation initiatives—’ Jim cringed, ‘—weighed foremost on my mind until the end of talks. Now that it has been settled, I will endeavor to determine a proper time, place, and catalyst.’

‘For the first kiss,’ Jim said.

‘That is the topic at hand,’ Spock replied.

Jim tipped his head back, observing a pattern on the ceiling. ‘The Kobayashi-Maru test.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The third time I took it. You just looked so damn... _affronted_ , I couldn’t help it. Had to kiss you.’

‘Ah.’ Spock swallowed. ‘You will forgive me, captain, if I am unable to deliver the deception.’

‘Because Vulcans do not lie.’

‘They do not.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jim crossed one ankle over the other and stretched. ‘Not the Kobayashi-Maru, then. That’s fine. I’m still working on it. You hungry, Spock?’

Despite Jim’s insistence that food delivered as room service tasted better than any other type—except food eaten out of a picnic basket—Spock could taste no difference in the meal that arrived to them from any they had eaten before.

Jim favored a traditional Earth delicacy known as the hamburger. Spock did not know when he had first become aware of the captain’s carnivorous tendencies, only that during their last morning on the Andorian homeworld, Jim had created a disturbance in the canteen by filling the room with the sharp, greasy smell of animal proteins.

The hamburger was not a traditional breakfast item. But, when Jim liked something, he did not do so in moderation.

Spock had been privy to the detailed instructions Jim had provided the Deltan chefs in charge of serving the delegation, describing not only the ingredients, but also the procedure, that went into the construction of a proper hamburger. From the look on his face as he was greeted with the results, it had not been successful.

‘It is my understanding that a meal is more effective once eaten,’ Spock said. ‘The nutrients cannot be absorbed through scowling alone.’

‘Aw, come on, that’s just—that’s just _meat_ on _bread_ , is what that is. Spock.’ Jim picked the various elements apart as described, throwing them down on his plate. ‘And that’s just not right. It’s a _crime_.’

‘It is what you requested,’ Spock replied.

‘It is _so_ not what I requested.’

Jim raked both hands through his hair, lacing his fingers together at the back of his neck. Head bowed, he let out a sigh. Spock braced himself for whatever galactic catastrophe was bound to follow and nudged his own tray closer to the center of the table. Some of Jim’s worse ideas sprang from a combination of disappointment and boredom. It was yet unknown what would occur if hunger was added to the mix.

Spock suspected he was suffering more from the stipulations set down by their imagined affair than he had elected to let on.

‘I need another drink,’ Jim said. ‘Something—something to get me in the _mood_.’

‘The mood?’ This time, Spock’s eyebrow raised of its own accord. He had only a passing familiarity with the term, but it was enough to be certain said mood was not something Jim would likely seek to cultivate in his presence.

‘Don’t get all excited.’ Jim leaned forward to steal from Spock’s tray, which held a small variety of grain-based dishes. ‘I mean the creative spirit. One of us has to work at this. And I’m starting to see you’re an idea man without much follow-through, Spock.’

Untrue, although Spock could see why, in this instance, Jim had chosen to apply such logic.

‘You are still...orchestrating the parameters of our first kiss.’

‘Yeah, and it’s a little tough to think about kissing someone who talks about kissing like that. Even for me.’ Jim found something he liked in the remains of Spock’s dinner and went back for seconds. ‘Uhura might’ve thought I was kidding, but I’m dead serious. I’m gonna need her perspective in all this.’

‘As Nyota’s experience in relationships does not touch on the fictional,’ Spock began.

‘It’s gotta _sound_ real, Spock,’ Jim said. ‘If you’re not gonna lie and make it easy, then we have to come up with something that sits nice and pretty in the realm of plausible deniability. Work with me, here.’

That was all Spock had ever done from the beginning. It did not seem either of them would benefit if he were to point that out, however, as Jim was already speaking in a new metaphorical territory that was lost on Spock’s Vulcan sensibilities. Jim dug through a Deltan rice dish with his fingers, heedless of the sticky, glutinous material lodging itself beneath his nails and adhering to his skin.

‘Captain,’ Spock said, ‘how much do you know of Vulcan psionic ability?’

‘I’m willing to bet it’s a lot less than you know, but a little more than Bones knows.’ Jim looked up, licking the sticky rice off the corner of his thumb. He made a face that signaled displeasure, yet continued to eat. More conflicting evidence. Short of a computer to assist him, the probability Spock would manage to complete said work was astronomically low. ‘So, tell me—am I close?’

‘I am unsure how much the doctor knows of Vulcan physiology,’ Spock admitted. ‘He often finds occasion to mention his lack of expertise in the area, though I have noted he _is_ prone to exaggeration.’

‘Prone to exaggeration, huh?’ Jim’s smiled around the words. ‘Sure, that’s one way to put it. Bones _thrives_ on drama. Loves to hate every second he spends in space.’

‘Most illogical,’ Spock said.

‘Tell him that sometime. Just make sure I’m there when you do, ‘cause I wanna see it.’

‘Surely the doctor is capable of ascertaining the illogic in his own behavior—’

‘Vulcan psionic ability,’ Jim reminded him. He waved his hand—a hand with which Spock had become intimate in the past twenty-four hours, though that intimacy was not without precedent. There had been another time, though glass separated their skin. A minor thing; it did not stand in the way of basic sensory perception. Now that the glass was gone, Spock knew the contours of Jim’s fingers, the way they spread or tightened on impulse, without thought but not without heat, their tics and twitches—how, for example, he stroked his own chin when he was thoughtful, or stroked Spock’s knuckles when he had grown distracted. It was a simple thing for him, every gesture, _touch itself_ , for it came without the added connotations—a channel, rather than a mere ‘spark’.

Nyota had explained that concept to Spock once before. He saw the reason in that metaphor, as it described, to the best of its abilities, that which could not be described, by definition.

Now, a similar task had fallen to him: to explain a Vulcan concept to a human who had no innate understanding of it. However smart Jim was—a fact he had little difficulty proving time and again—instincts could not be replicated, nor was there a language in Spock’s extensive vocabulary to compose a sufficient translation.

‘Vulcans are touch-telepaths.’ Spock began with what he knew—what was deceptively simple. ‘We are able to communicate through a single touch. Once, when I was much younger, I saw my mother—’ He had taken steps to avoid the emotional compromise a mention of the word heralded, and could now speak the word freely, ‘—touching my father’s fingers, like so.’ He demonstrated, two fingers of his right hand crossing two fingers of the left. ‘This transpired some time before I understood the human concept of a ‘kiss’ and its importance to your species’ romantic culture. Vulcans do not kiss, not as humans do; why should we, when we sense far more with a touch of our fingertips than any made with our lips?’

‘And here I thought it’d be because you were too busy talking to take a time out,’ Jim said. Despite the twist of humor in his tone, he was watching Spock’s hands and paying close attention to the visual aspects of the explanation.

‘As such,’ Spock continued, ‘we may conclude that it would not be a strict untruth to suggest to the Deltans that our first ‘kiss’, at least in a manner of speaking, occurred moments before your death in engineering, when our hands met and you moved your fingers against mine.’

Jim was silent. The plate between them was empty. At last, Jim shifted less than an inch back into his chair.

‘Huh,’ he said.

‘If you find this anecdote lacks the appropriate romantic classifiers—’

‘C’mon, Spock.’ Jim ducked his head against his bent arm. ‘Are you kidding me? What’s more romantic than a first kiss that’s also a last kiss?’

Spock was unsure of how that question—which may well have been rhetorical in nature—would be best answered. He was silent.

‘...Only it wasn’t,’ Jim said, lifting his head. Spock could have named approximately fifty-two shades of blue, the average number that could be seen by the human eye, but none of them would have applied to the color of Jim’s eyes as they were now. ‘It _wasn’t_ the last kiss.’

Spock’s mouth worked, the muscles moving on instinct alone. He was reluctant to speak without some understanding of which direction Jim planned to steer them. Multiple headings presented themselves as possibilities.

There were always possibilities.

Easily the most illogical of these was the notion that Jim would try to kiss him now—not because he wanted to, but because of some intuitive romantic significance that he imagined he had sensed.

‘No,’ Spock said.

It was neither question nor confirmation, which gave Jim the room to elaborate.

‘Well, because I’ve been,’ Jim held up his own hands, rubbing them together before tangling the digits in a crude approximation of the way he’d been toying with Spock’s fingers during their diplomatic talks, ‘you know. All _day,_ Spock. And you weren’t gonna say anything?’ A sudden smile lit Jim’s face. It could not portend anything good. ‘Unless you were enjoying it. Am I a good kisser? I mean, I _know_ I’m good at the human style, but I haven’t had much practice… With the other thing.’

Spock’s posture turned stiff, which was his first indication that he had been relaxed only seconds earlier. ‘I cannot comment on an intent that was not present at the time of your overture.’

‘Great, that’s a real non-answer.’ Jim allowed his hands to part. Spock did not imagine he would be as easily dissuaded from the topic. ‘Sometimes I think you’re a born diplomat, Spock.’

‘Fortunate that one of us is,’ Spock said, ‘so that the other is not overly burdened with the planning of irrigation initiatives.’

‘Was that a _joke?_ ’ Jim asked. Having consumed approximately half of his dinner in addition to half of Spock’s, he at last appeared sated. He sat back, bracing his boots against the edge of the table. ‘I guess all that kissing must’ve put you in a good mood.’

Spock’s response came automatically. ‘My mood has been affected neither positively nor negatively by the day’s events.’

‘See, when you say stuff like _that_ , Spock, it makes me doubt my own prowess.’ Despite his protests, Spock could detect nothing but lazy good humor spread over Jim’s features. Perhaps he was achieving ‘the mood’ he had sought to cultivate earlier. ‘It makes me think we should run some drills. Get some practice in. What good’s a fiancé if he can’t make you blush green in front of an alien diplomatic envoy? I know _you’ve_ got human kissing down. Don’t ask me how I know; it wouldn’t be fair to incriminate my source. But let’s just say: the odds, as they stand, are a bit uneven.’

‘Captain,’ Spock said.

Jim continued, with all the forward momentum of a drakoulias on the hunt. ‘We might be embracing Earth traditions for our wedding, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect your culture, too. And before you answer, let me point out, we’re basically _already_ on a date, here.’

The notion gave Spock pause to review the facts.

They had shared a meal, dinner, at which Jim had eaten off his plate. Talk had turned to their shared past, which included reminiscing over a moment of marked intimacy. There had been a mention of kissing. But the evidence was at best circumstantial. Even for a human tradition, the rules seemed pointlessly careless. They could be too easily misinterpreted.

A characteristic that _would_ work in their favor for the Deltan delegation. But it was not one Spock found cause to embrace when they were alone.

‘This has not been a date,’ he said. If the facts alone were unclear, then it was up to him to lend lucidity to the proceedings.

‘Because…?’ Jim’s question was leading. Spock did not have to rise to the challenge, to follow through to its natural conclusion.

But there was something about the promise of besting Jim, of the retort when he volleyed, that Spock found nigh-impossible to resist. A character flaw, one that would not doubt be expunged with age and experience.

‘I believe the precepts are clear on at least one matter,’ Spock replied. ‘Both parties _must_ be aware of the implications prior to the event itself. To offer a label after the fact does not count.’

‘Doesn’t count—c’mon, Spock, you made that up right now.’

‘Extemporizing _is_ encouraged on diplomatic missions.’

‘So you’re temporal _and_ extemporal.’

‘Wordplay—’ Spock began.

Jim reached across the table and took Spock’s hand. The customary sensations began at once and Spock ordered them from first to last as they came, inspiring neural and sensory reactions simultaneously: surprise, recognition, familiarity, and uncertainty. The latter two were a contradiction in terms; familiarity bred certainty, not its opposite. But as well as Spock had come to know Jim’s hands, and as many times as they had touched most recently, there was much more that remained to be known. Explored. Sought after; understood. And that would require action on Spock’s part, rather than acceptance. To hold, rather than to simply be held.

Jim’s fingers covered Spock’s on the tabletop. Cool metal beneath; cool skin above. Spock was the warming element; his blood ran hotter than anything that coursed through Jim’s human veins. Jim was not cold but he pressed against the warmth as though he believed osmosis possible, flesh to flesh, hand to hand, palm to knuckles.

‘You gotta show me, Spock,’ Jim said. His eyes provided distraction. They were unremarkable, without an allergic reaction to bring them to Spock’s attention, and yet... ‘Like this...?’

The fore- and index-fingers of Jim’s left hand trailed along the fore- and index-fingers of Spock’s right, from knuckle to knuckle, attention paid equally to each centimeter of skin, with equal tenderness—and equal friction. Jim slid his touch to the final knuckle, then curved his caress into the valley between Spock’s forefinger and thumb, where the webbing of thin skin was most vulnerable. From there, he spread Spock’s thumb outward. It was a mere suggestion; a soft, yet insistent, push.

Then, having gone as far as he could go, Jim followed the same path in reverse. Calluses gave a rough texture, but the gentleness of the connection, as Jim allowed only the lightest of touches, worked in contrast to that roughness. Another contradiction. Simultaneous sensory inputs, which demanded multiple sensory reactions. Though no chemical reaction had been engendered, Spock could feel the heat in his hand as though it were not his hand. The heat with which he had been living, which generally went without notice, made itself known as it was shared.

Soon Jim’s hand, too, was hot.

Spock took a few steadying breaths.

In the beginning of his time with Starfleet, there had been many standards with which he had taken pains to become acquainted. What was the status quo for humanity proved difficult for a Vulcan, even one who could claim that identity by a mere half. Bright lights; sudden noises; and the human predilection for physical contact—all these were anathema to Vulcan eyes, ears, and telepathic sensitivities. But Spock had managed. His eyes had adjusted. His nervous system had adapted. He had come to weather the physical contact because he had known he must.

Knowing, as he had, that none of these slights or assaults were intentional, he had been better able to suppress his reaction to them. They were distractions. He was capable of operating despite and around them.

Jim—leaning across the table, rubbing their fingers together, spreading each of Spock’s wide and separate, alone and vulnerable, methodically applying a basic understanding to a full-scale assault—had done it all intentionally. Spock was still breathing, but he was aware the process was laborious. His throat had tightened. He controlled it, but the control was thin and lacked conviction. It would be easily worn down in a matter of moments.

‘...Huh.’ Jim breathed out just as Spock inhaled, still attempting to regulate his internal functions. They were connected, though what passed between them was all flowing inward to Spock, without any outflow in return. He was sensing, learning, feeling, in the most literal interpretation of each, but he could not reciprocate. There was no pathway for exchange. ‘...Yeah. _Huh_. I don’t get it.’

His eyes brightened.

He was lying.

Spock turned his hand over, palm up. This had the side effect of dislodging Jim’s hand, but Jim’s attentions were single-minded; he drew his index finger down the side of Spock’s hand, beneath the root of his littlest finger. It tickled. Spock’s breathing adapted, taking in the deep rhythm that often preceded meditation.

‘Like this.’ He extended his index and middle fingers, then reached for Jim’s with his left hand, arranging them into a mirror image. When they touched it was fingertip to fingertip.

Less invasive than the assault Jim had been conducting under his own steam—but it held a certain meaning of its own.

‘So this is… What your parents did.’ Jim studied the motion and curled his fingers around Spock’s lightly before allowing them to straighten once more. It seemed he was a man for whom the simpler, more understated gestures would not suffice. Not for the first time, Spock found he was grateful for his years of experience in human physical contact. He had not known it then, but they had been leading up to a master class in dealing with Jim Kirk. ‘I gotta be honest, Spock—I think I like mine better.’

There were benefits to both.

‘And I can’t imagine being human and getting off on this,’ Jim added.

‘Are you,’ Spock inquired, wanting to be sure, ‘referring to my mother in this context, Captain?’

‘ _Spock_.’ Jim’s fingers unfurled, catching Spock’s hand in a brief, intimate squeeze. The accompanying rush of heat was not merely his own, but in part a transfer, as well. They were both fortunate that Jim did not invest much importance in ordering his emotions with specific care. They projected as broad, colorful strokes. Spock could infer their meaning, but it did not feel like a true reading. ‘I would _never_ bring up someone’s parents while we’re making out.’

A clever answer, which nonetheless provided the context Spock had been looking for.

He could not say whether his mother had sustained adequate emotional fulfillment from her interactions with his father. He had never seen fit to ask. And now, the opportunity could no longer present itself.

‘Right.’ Jim’s hand twitched and Spock took the suggestion, each of them returning to his own side of the table. ‘Sorry. I’m a real mood-killer. Not on _purpose_ , or anything.’ The grin returned. ‘Let’s just say I do better when my mouth is occupied.’

The warmth in Spock’s fingers remained, the ghostly impression of Jim’s forceful emotions clouding his perception. As far as experiments went, this one had been...rash.

But that did not discount the results divined from its undertaking.  

‘No doubt that is the reason human evolution deemed it necessary to fashion your kissing around the mouth and tongue,’ Spock said.

‘No way.’ Jim rubbed his thumb into the center of his palm. It was impossible for him to experience the aftereffects of a transference that had not taken place—and yet Jim _had_ historically displayed an unexpected sensitivity to his surroundings. ‘You did _not_ just burn me—and all of humanity, I’ll point out—on the _evolutionary_ scale.’

‘You yourself implied that the Vulcan tradition rose out of a disinclination to halt conversation,’ Spock replied. ‘I was merely offering my own perspective on events.’

‘Maybe we do it that way because it _feels_ good,’ Jim said.

‘I have no complaint with regard to the sensation,’ Spock began.

Jim made a sound that was chiefly an expulsion of hot air. His complexion had colored, the capillaries beneath his skin dilating to tinge his cheeks and throat a dull red. He swallowed and Spock observed the bob of his Adam’s apple—the overly poetic term for a human laryngeal prominence.

Spock contemplated the need for one of McCoy’s inoculations. Although, to his knowledge, there had been nothing in either of their meals to agitate Jim’s already-compromised immune system.

‘You are red,’ Spock said.

‘Well _you’re_ green,’ Jim replied.

‘That was not an insult, captain. Merely a statement of fact. Are there any off-world grains to which you are allergic?’

Jim blinked. His eyes appeared to unfocus, then find a point of equilibrium, holding his gaze steady, trained on Spock’s face. His nose or, possibly, a few inches lower. ‘Any what now?’

‘Chestnuts and a glutinous rice,’ Spock explained. ‘What you ate off my plate. Have you any allergies to these particular ingredients?’

‘This isn’t an allergic reaction, Spock.’ Jim swallowed again with some effort, as though around a tightening or swollen throat. All signs of allergy, a topic about which Jim had proven to be stubborn before. ‘And if you call Bones in here right now, I’ll—’

Spock awaited the incipient reprimand. It did not follow. Instead Jim breathed, heavily, in and out, for a moment longer, then summarily and without warning eased back in his chair.

‘At a loss for words, captain?’ Spock asked.

‘Can’t think of the best way to punish a Vulcan,’ Jim admitted. ‘Give me a second; I’ll figure something out.’

Spock gave him a second, and another, and a third. He listened to Jim’s breathing steady and felt the lingering connection ebb, pulling back like a tide. So, too, had it become easier to think, as easy as it should have been, yet the thoughts with which Spock was occupied were no less difficult. Rather, they presented themselves as stickier than the rice had been in his evening meal. Jim had given him a great deal to contemplate and despite Doctor McCoy’s marveling assertions, Spock was no computer. It would take him time—how much time, he could not estimate.

‘Bones’d never let me live it down, anyway,’ Jim added. Spock heard the scrape of his chair herald his rise and his departure. He rested his hand against the doorframe to steady himself, rather than allowing it to fall on Spock’s shoulder; at any other time, this redirection of contact would have been a welcome relief.

Spock dropped his hand into his lap. He curled his fingers in towards his palm and the gesture was uncomplicated, far from unusual. It was as it had ever been.

‘Shower,’ Jim said.

‘The current situation regarding water rations on Delta IV—’ Spock began.

‘ _Shower_ ,’ Jim repeated. ‘And don’t do the finger thing without me, Spock; you _might_ make me jealous.’

‘It had not crossed my mind,’ Spock said, observing Jim’s back as he left for the bathroom, rolling one shoulder, pounding the door control with a hollow echo that the door itself swallowed as it slid shut.

*


	5. V.

Jim was still busy within when there was a rap on the door; Spock was engaged with his first officer’s log. As McCoy would have no reason to knock, nor did Spock sense the aura of his agitation, he knew that it was a Deltan on the other side even before the mental probe swept forward, searching for signs of...

_Pleasure_.

A precaution that may have been due, Spock surmised, to equal parts respect for the delegation’s privacy as well as curiosity.

Spock stood. Jim stepped out from the bathroom with a towel around his hips and another draped over his head, in the midst of drying his hair.

‘If you’d get that, Spock,’ he said.

That was the instruction Spock needed—though he knew his expression had passed commentary, if not judgment, on Jim’s current state of undress.

‘If you insist,’ Spock replied.

The door opened; it was indeed a Deltan on the other side, one of the ambassador’s cultural attachés. ‘Do I interrupt?’ she asked, glancing over Spock’s shoulder.

‘A couple more seconds, and you might’ve been.’ Jim was at Spock’s side with a few easy steps. He had, from what Spock could tell of his body temperature at such close proximity, taken a cold bath rather than a warm one. His skin was flushed from the choice, a few beads of moisture collected in his clavicle. When his shoulder bumped Spock’s, it left a damp imprint, faint but obvious. ‘Anything in particular we can do for you? Don’t tell me you’re here to scold me for the shower I just took. The tub was calling to me, and I just couldn’t resist.’

The Deltan bowed, her amusement plain. ‘Not at all. I have come to inform you that the necessary preparations have been made for your...’ She paused on an unfamiliar term. ‘...honeymoon suite.’

Jim’s eyes widened imperceptibly. Spock alone observed the change.

‘Our…honeymoon suite. Right.’ Jim laughed, rubbing a hand through his hair at the back, where it was still dark and wet. ‘You guys are really—you _really_ know how to treat a guy. We were just talking about how this bed here’s a tight fit for two. I’m not complaining, since it’s just about the only way to get Spock here to cuddle with me, but I can’t tell you the number of times I wake up on the floor. It’s like we aren’t even sleeping together!’

The Deltan regarded Spock with new interest, as though she was unable to understand what he could find so objectionable about _cuddling_. Although Vulcans and Deltans both shared a common link in their psionic abilities, the Deltans embraced the chance to meld both physical and emotional responses into one, perfect act. What would seem overwhelming to other races was perfectly natural to them.

Spock pressed his shoulder into the captain’s, in a deliberate show of solidarity. Jim put an arm around his waist.

‘Your patience for Vulcan reticence is to be commended,’ the Deltan said.

Jim’s fingers splayed to the left of Spock’s spine, in the small of his back. ‘Well... He’s only _half_ Vulcan.’

Spock had not deemed it necessary to share with the envoy any of Jim’s personal background, so it did not seem obligatory to have his own genetic history brought up as a conversational piece.

However, he was forced to reexamine his indignation when the Deltan’s expression became one of shrewd appreciation.

‘Ah—a man of dual passions.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Jim’s hand passed to Spock’s hip and his arm tightened, as though he had taken leave of his mind and decided to try and lift Spock off the ground.

He did not attempt further cantilevering . The captain was in peak condition as of his last ordered physical, but his strength was still ultimately human in nature. Spock remained unmoved.

‘You are relocating our quarters,’ he said.

It seemed useful for at least one of them to keep the conversation on course. It was a place Spock had become well used to occupying among the crew of the Enterprise—and there was a certain comfort that came with knowing his position was no different here.

‘Yes,’ the Deltan regained her focus, ‘the ambassador wished to house you in rooms befitting your status as a couple on the verge of great commitment. Your belongings will be moved for you. If you would just follow me…’

‘Lemme get some clothes on,’ Jim said.

The Deltan’s eyes lingered over his naked torso as if the reminder was akin to verbal permission. Spock did not need to look in order to know what she saw. Jim was built with symmetrical attention to musculature, more pronounced than Spock’s own, with a physique that was overall sturdier. His skin was fair, the momentary flush barely faded, and bore a smattering of freckles across his pectoral muscles.

‘Unless…’ Jim grinned when he became aware of her attention, one hand at his towel as though he intended to remove it in front of her.

Spock bumped his hip sharply against Jim’s, accompanying the gesture with a cough.

It was not subtle. The ambassadors in Spock’s genealogical background would have found nothing to be proud of in his actions. However, it was effective.

‘I will attend your readiness outside,’ the Deltan said.

She left the room. Jim closed the door.

‘I wasn’t gonna get naked in front of her, Spock,’ Jim said.

Spock found he did not care to respond. There were more pressing concerns at hand, such as the fact that the Deltan ambassador had no doubt seen fit to move the captain and himself closer to his own chambers and into a more intimate setting. There would be less room for them to maneuver—and for Jim to indulge in his favored improvisation.

There would also be...expectations.

‘What’s the matter, Spock? Not used to the luxury treatment? You’d rather we got shipped off to a moon to spend our time meditating in a cave?’ Jim had found a shirt. Spock turned just as the towel around his hips fell, the small of Jim’s back—though it could hardly be termed small, at least not relatively—disappearing beneath the yellow captain’s uniform. He bent to find the rest of his Starfleet diplomatic attire, then turned.

‘I had not considered it,’ Spock replied.

The spot on the back of Jim’s neck was still damp. His wet hair would drip onto his collar. Spock folded his hands behind his back and waited as Jim smoothed the front of his shirt down against his stomach.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Am I decent?’

‘Permission to answer truthfully, captain,’ Spock said.

Jim grinned. ‘Permission totally granted, but only if you’re about to tell me just how indecent I am.’ He waited. Spock saw no reason to repeat what Jim already knew, and so Jim took his arm, their elbows linked. ‘Honeymoon suite, Spock.’

‘I am aware of our incipient relocation,’ Spock replied.

Their Deltan escort continued to test them as they left their compound and followed her, though she offered them hospitable distractions, pointing out architecture at intervals, while the pulse at the inside of Jim’s elbow beat steadily into Spock’s, internal rhythms skewed by the sound of their footsteps. At last, they arrived at their new quarters, a larger room with—admirably, Jim did not protest—even more roses.

Over-abundance was no longer a suitable description. They were everywhere—though not, Spock noticed with some relief, in the bedroom itself.

A single bed, with more pillows than two individuals would ever have reason to need, and—of all things—a large mirror located on the ceiling above it. ‘You will find the sheets soft,’ the Deltan escort said. ‘A very pleasurable synthetic fiber we produce here on Delta IV for...special occasions.’

‘A very pleasurable synthetic fiber.’ Jim nodded appreciatively. He was not yet exhibiting signs of a returning allergic reaction, but they had passed quickly through the leisure area into the private bedroom for exactly that reason. The Deltan escort, on the other hand, appraised them with an alternative conclusion: that they were two individuals physically attracted to one another, therefore eager to arrive at their place of communal rest and, presumably, coitus.

‘It was my honor.’ The Deltan escort bowed. ‘I will leave you now, of course. Unless...’

‘Tempting,’ Jim replied. ‘I mean, seriously, you are...making it _so_ hard to resist, and what’s more, I think you know it.’ He and the escort exchanged a look. Spock continued his study of the pleasurable synthetic fiber, pinching the sheets between thumb and forefinger to test it. ‘But, as you can see, my...fiancé here is... Well, let’s just say I’m taking things slow.’

‘The Vulcan side of him. I understand.’ The Deltan escort stepped back—lingering for a moment, before her keen intellect overruled her equally keen appetites. Though she was reluctant to leave, she was still a diplomat. ‘Please—enjoy yourselves. The rest of your personal items will be along shortly.’

The door once again slid shut between them. Spock turned to face Jim as Jim threw himself backwards, back first, into the bed.

‘ _Oh_ yeah,’ he said, wiggling in place. ‘That is some _good_...what was it again?’

‘A very pleasurable synthetic fiber,’ Spock offered.

‘Right; right. A very pleasurable synthetic fiber. It’s good stuff, Spock; you oughta try it out for yourself.’

Spock stood where he was. ‘I have tested the material already.’

‘What, that little pinch from before? This is the kind of thing you have to _experience_ , Spock. Or at least get used to it. Now that we’re here, it’s not like we can get away with you on the couch anymore, now can we?’

Spock considered, then sat on the edge of the bed. The fabric was slippery; not necessarily pleasurable, but certainly supple and silky. ‘It would cause diplomatic offense,’ he began slowly, ‘if we were to reject this honor and gift, given to us by the Deltan ambassador himself.’

‘ _Bingo_.’ Jim fashioned a phaser-shape of his thumb and forefinger and fired in Spock’s direction, aiming for the chest. Dead center. A curious pantomime. ‘You got it, Spock. We’re... We’re _gonna_ have to sleep together.’

This seemed to be more of a leap than the means to a logical end. But, as Spock examined his alternatives, he was perturbed to discover that _in_ leaping, Jim had arrived more quickly at the same conclusion he himself had always been bound to draw.

There wasno couch to claim, as Spock had done previously. The Deltans had obviously done enough research to ascertain that a couple on the verge of marriage commitment would not be spending much time anywhere but their bed.

The small sitting room adjacent to their sleeping quarters _did_ come furnished, although there were mere essentials: tables, chairs, and a sofa that would have been too short even for Montgomery Scott’s Roylan companion.

Spock did not enjoy the insidious feeling of manipulation that crept in as he observed their surroundings. Jim, undaunted by his silence and no longer testing the sheets, came up behind him. He lifted his hand as if to slap Spock’s shoulder, then caught himself mid-act, re-routing his hand to the back of his own neck.

Their discussion about Vulcan touch telepathy was still with him. Spock could be grateful for small developments.

‘What’d that couch ever do to you, Spock?’

‘It is not of adequate size,’ Spock said. ‘It seems…’

‘If you say illogical, I’ll slap you right in your Vulcan mouth,’ Jim said. The buoyant quality of his voice suggested that this was another empty threat. It might even have been termed affable banter, the sort shared among friends. Sometime in between where Spock had left him on the bed and now, he had located and opened the minibar. There was a drink in his hand, condensation gathering on the surface of the glass bottle around his fingers. A bead of water dripped over the distal phalanx of what was known colloquially as the human ‘ring’ finger. Spock blinked, once, then looked away. ‘It’s not a couch, Spock. It’s a _loveseat_.’

Armed with this new information, Spock examined the loveseat anew. As he’d suspected, having a name for it did not give it new meaning.

‘I do not understand,’ Spock confessed. ‘If its intended purpose is fornication, then logically, the surface area would need to be much larger—‘

He was interrupted by Jim’s laughter, an unselfconscious snort followed by a giggle that would not have been out of place from someone far younger. Jim was young, despite the gravitas he’d acquired for his role as captain of the _Enterprise_. Sly reminders appeared in a flicker every now and then, as light reflecting off a stream of dust and gas in space. Not a storm. Simply a moment in which the particles were repelled, rather than absorbed.

Spock did not forget. But knowing the facts did not mean each one of them was forever present in the forefront of his mind.

‘To my knowledge, I have not said anything that would merit such a response.’

Jim crowded into his personal space, the tips of his boots bumping into Spock’s. They were not touching and yet Jim’s mere proximity brought with it its own sensory onslaught, muddying the faculties Spock employed for basic comprehension. He would never understand, for instance, why Jim ran from a simple answer as though he was allergic to that, as well.

‘They’re not for— _fornicating_ on, Spock.’ There was that laugh again. Jim’s repeated trips to the minibar over the course of the day had eased some of his earlier tension. ‘You use them for, I don’t know. _Canoodling._ They’re smaller because they’re for two people. You sit in them as a couple.’

Spock was satisfied with the explanation, though it did _not_ address why Jim had come so close to impart it.

‘Is this a secret of your people?’ Spock asked.

Jim raised an eyebrow. He did not have the specialized dexterity to lift one alone and so the other came along with it. Spock returned his expression—properly—dropping his gaze to draw attention the space between them. Or lack thereof.

Jim grinned. It suggested a secret he had not made Spock privy to. ‘I’m getting under your skin, Spock. In case… Well, you never know who’s listening in. Not _listening._ You know. Curious little devils, and they seem _particularly_ interested in how I manage to stoke your fires, if you follow me. And if all they’re getting is your feelings on the furniture, Spock, they’re gonna be disappointed, to say the least.’

To say the least.

‘Their telepathic presence. You are aware of it as well?’

Jim shrugged. He did not move back. ‘I took an educated guess.’

‘You made an informed deduction.’

‘I like mine better.’ At last, Jim stepped away, running his hand over the curved back of the couch—subset: loveseat—his thumb trailing against a knotted brocade. Tactile, though he was no more reading the furniture’s thoughts than he could have. What he did, he did aimlessly, finally clasping the back one final time before sniffling on a sneeze. ‘Gotta get out of here. Roses. Should’ve picked a different flower.’

He stepped back through the door to the bedroom and Spock followed, as he could not sit alone in a couch made for two.

‘I mean,’ Jim added, ‘it’s not as though you’ve only ever slept alone, Spock.’

Spock remained in the doorway. Jim’s motions and trajectory, charting an elliptical orbit around the bed in question, was reflected in a steady flash of color by the mirror above. He circled the bed as he had circled the loveseat, at last resting his hand on the headboard, leaning forward to pat a pillow.

‘I mean, you’ve had to’ve gone camping or _something_ when you were little. Man, not like I can imagine _you_ as a kid. Jeez.’ When Spock did not reply, Jim did the unthinkable, and read his silence. ‘Wait, never? You’ve _never_ been camping? Man, you are missing out.’

‘There was tactical field training,’ Spock explained, ‘which I have come to understand is at times similar to this human method of relaxation. I am aware how to pitch a tent, as well as how to survive in no fewer than twelve distinct environmental subsets—’

‘Enough with the tent pitching, _please_ ,’ Jim said. ‘Okay, so you didn’t get cozy with a bunch of Vulcan kids in sleeping bags under the stars. But, all right, what about...’ He paused to grin, one of those minute shifts that signaled he was on the verge of making a weak joke even he knew would sound ridiculous upon delivery. ‘...a teddy bear or something?’

Once again, Spock did not reply; and, once again, Jim correctly interpreted the pause. At times, a lack of denial was, in Vulcan terms, as good as confirmation.

‘No way,’ Jim said. ‘You didn’t. ...You _did_.’

Spock sighed. ‘The sehlat differs from your human ‘teddy bears’, captain, in a number of significant ways. To begin with, they are animate creatures. Living animals. And even the domesticated sehlat are aggressive, while their six inch fangs make their demands difficult to ignore.’

‘...You slept with a bear that had six inch fangs?’

‘I do not lie,’ Spock replied. ‘Neither do I exaggerate.’

It was Jim’s turn to sigh. ‘That is _wild_ ,’ he said.

‘I already explained that the sehlat was domesticated—’

‘But don’t worry, Spock; even if I _do_ bite, I don’t have six inch fangs.’ Jim bared his teeth as though confirmation of this obvious fact was somehow necessary.

‘I am aware of that, captain. I have passing familiarity with all your personnel files.’

‘Sexy,’ Jim said. ‘Man, those Deltans are going to be disappointed as _hell_ if they’re thinking they’ll get to sense a stoked Vulcan fire tonight. Personnel files, six inch fangs... This is the weirdest things have _ever_ gotten for me in the bedroom, and one time I...’ Jim trailed off. He reflected, fondly. ‘Let’s just say there were two tails involved. Prehensile. Did things to me, Spock—things I’ll never forget.’

‘Captain,’ Spock said.

‘Never mind; one thing at a time. As your commanding officer, Spock, I’m gonna have to insist that you lie down in this bed with me and get some sleep. Not on a couch—or a love-seat. Hilarious as it’d be to watch you curl up on that thing, you’re my first officer, and you need your rest.’

‘And there is the matter of the Deltans’ expectations,’ Spock added.

Jim sat on the edge of the bed without indulging, as he had before, in the act of reveling in it.

‘Diplomatic missions can’t get stickier than this, can they?’ Jim asked. For a brief moment, he appeared tired.

Spock sat as well, on the opposite side of the bed. ‘In my estimation,’ he replied, ‘this is less...’sticky’ than the time we nearly allowed a volcano to destroy an entire planet.’

‘Good times.’ Jim set his drink aside and gestured incomprehensibly with his hands before his meaning became clear. ‘ _Boom_. Let’s try not to let this one blow up in our faces either, huh, Spock?’

‘No, captain,’ Spock agreed.

Just as they had worked together to avoid volcanic destruction on Nibiru, they would have similar success here.

Any other outcome was unthinkable.

*

The complexities of human pre-bed rituals were not something Spock had ever witnessed firsthand. Nyota had her apartment in the Mission District of San Francisco, but their mornings were often busy, and logic dictated they would be most productive in an environment familiar to them. Nyota could not work without her materials and Spock had none of them in _his_ quarters.

Jim first disappeared into the bathroom to change, although he poked his head out the door at infrequent intervals, mouth ringed with the white froth characteristic of tooth-brushing activity. This behavior did not seem tailored to offer _Spock_ the same privacy Jim sought to undress. It was an illogical situation, but Spock was more than used to the odds being stacked against him as far as logic and the Enterprise were concerned.

He did not, therefore, nearly strangle himself in his shirt when, in the midst of pulling it over his head he felt a touch spark across his abdomen. Fingers against skin, human contact that was warmer than the air around them yet still cool against his skin.

He _did_ bring his elbow down sharply into the center of Jim’s face. From the sound and quality of the impact, Spock guessed he’d struck the bridge of his nose.

‘ _Jesus_.’ Jim reeled away, stumbling backwards from where he’d snuck up on Spock to collapse on the edge of the bed beside him. His hand was over his nose, making it impossible for Spock to inspect the extent of the damage. ‘Mother _fuck_ , Spock. Warn a guy first!’

‘I would counsel you to take your own words to heart in this matter.’ Spock finished dressing before he moved to examine the injury. He had acted on instinct, motivated solely by surprise, but it would not harm Jim to believe there had been more intent behind the act than that.

‘I’m bleeding.’ Jim’s posture relaxed into a sprawl. It was difficult to sound sheepish while simultaneously leveling an accusation at one’s attacker, but he managed it competently. Spock knelt on the bed, making the decision to pull Jim’s hand aside so he could see for himself just how much bleeding there was.

This appeared to be what Jim was angling for all along, as he leaned back further, letting his head hit the covers and an unstable pile of pillows. His nose wrinkled, breathing labored. There _was_ some blood present at his left nostril.

‘...You’re _hairy_ ,’ Jim said, as though this explained everything. Spock experienced a momentary regret that he had not struck harder when the opportunity presented itself. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Had to feel it for myself.’

Then again, there was always the chance Spock’s blow had dislodged something vital to the operations within Jim’s brain. Perhaps a critical synaptic relay had been derailed.

‘I fail to see how assessment of my physiological attributes would require a tactile approach,’ Spock said.

But he already had an answer to that. The present data corroborated these irrational behaviors. Jim _was_ a tactile person; he had explored the bedding and the loveseat with a similar eagerness for discovery, as though when confronted with anything new, like a child, he felt compelled to experience it with every sense. As though one was not enough.

A living, sentient being was not the same as a piece of furniture, however. And even among humans, Jim’s predisposition toward touching seemed abnormally omnipresent.

‘OK, you’re pissed.’ Jim sniffled. It appeared to be an attempt to reverse the flow of blood from his nose and not a tactic to garner sympathy. ‘I get it. Consider me suitably chastised.’

‘The blow was not intentional,’ Spock said.

‘I know.’ Jim sat up, bracing his weight on his elbows. ‘I remember what it feels like when you’re _trying_ to hit me, Spock.’

Spock, too, remembered.

‘At least tell me I dented your elbow with my hard head even a little bit.’ Jim reached for it as Spock had reached for his face, then paused midair, his hand between them. ‘You’re touchy, though,’ he added. ‘And not touchy like I’m touchy, either.’

He was aware, therefore, of his peculiar inclination. Spock leaned back against his calves, spine straight, considering the positives to hailing Doctor McCoy versus the negatives of including him at this late hour. They might be able to have him do away with the excess roses; Jim would also receive necessary medical attention. But as Jim had turned down the Deltan envoy’s participation that evening, it would be a slight to her attentions if they were to invite another to join them in their ‘honeymoon suite’.

Spock did not rise to procure his communicator.

‘Ah, I’ve had worse.’ Jim covered his nose with the palm of his hand. ‘A _lot_ worse. ...But then, you’ve probably read all about that on my personnel files.’

‘ _When provoked_ ,’ Spock recalled from memory, ‘ _recruit has displayed a tendency to respond with acts of physical violence_. You have garnered more than one demerit on record for ‘disruption’ involving your peers.’

‘That’s a fancy way of saying I knocked some heads together,’ Jim said. ‘They deserved it, though. ...Anyway, you should’ve seen the other guys.’

Spock waited. The silence provided Jim with the time necessary to reassess his behavioral choices and, if he had learned any lesson from them whatsoever, acknowledge his faults in order to improve upon them in future endeavors. In practice, it appeared to give Jim the opportunity to wheeze, a combination of ambient pollen and swollen nasal passages working together against his respiratory system.

‘If I snore tonight,’ he said at last, ‘then I want you to know, it’s not my fault. Nobody’s ever complained about it before. ...I was seriously expecting you to be completely hairless, you know. Not like I’ve spent time imagining it, it just...made the most sense. Believe me, I would’ve asked around if I’d thought...’

More silence. Jim’s chest was flushed. The adrenaline spike in response to an unexpected attack—and unanticipated pain—had caused his heart rate to accelerate. Spock did not have to be a doctor in order to detect the clear signs of a fight-or-flight reaction funneled into other channels of release. Jim’s chest swelled, then narrowed. He steadied his breaths, though they were labored, his breath caught against the palms of both hands.

‘Man,’ Jim added, ‘those Deltans are gonna get the wrong impression about you, Spock.’

‘They have already developed a number of wrong impressions about both of us,’ Spock replied.

‘I meant they’re going to think you’re a kinky sonofabitch, is what I’m saying. How am I supposed to explain the bruise in the morning?’ Jim spread his fingers, peering out from behind them. ‘...Well, I guess I _could_ think of a _few_ explanations. But it’s gonna get graphic. You sure you’re not gonna blush and embarrass yourself in front of the diplomats?’

‘Do you require ice?’ Spock asked.

‘Yeah,’ Jim said. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

Spock procured it for him from the minibar, holding it against the bridge of his nose. The heat from his hands was quick to warm it, condensation once more beading on Jim’s skin, tracing directionless paths down his cheeks to his jaw, disappearing beneath his chin. Jim reached up to steady the compress; his cold fingers found Spock’s and he braced himself. Spock could feel the tension in his body, how it radiated off his skin from his tense muscles like a fever.

‘Touchy,’ Jim repeated, muffled beneath the compress.

‘I believe you have the information necessary to infer why,’ Spock replied.

‘Cause you feel so damn much.’ Jim’s eyes were hidden. His voice was distorted. Only his fingers could be read, and Spock found his hand lingering close, feeling the chill of uncertainty at his fingertips. ‘Way more than you let on. And that makes you kinda crazy—no offense.’

‘I take no offense in an honest statement,’ Spock said. ‘How is your nose?’

‘Wet.’ Jim laughed, then winced. ‘Swollen. Huge. Probably going to fall off.’

‘Unlikely,’ Spock said.

‘It’s hanging in there,’ Jim admitted.

Jim, too, was ‘hanging in there’. He had an uncanny talent for stirring sympathy when it came to events that had largely unfolded due to his own actions. It was true that he was suffering now, but if he had merely chosen to express an interest with something other than his hands, at a moment when Spock could not see them coming, then he would not be in this situation in the first place. But of course, Spock’s occluded vision was precisely why he had chosen that moment, also in the first place.

Events had unfolded the way Jim had arranged them, whether he had done so consciously or not.

‘You’re thinking all kinds of unflattering things about me right now, aren’t you?’ Jim said. ‘I can tell.’

‘The human insistence in attempting to establish telepathic relays where none exist is beyond my ability to understand,’ Spock said. It was the truth. He could not see the value in claiming a false capacity for reading minds.

In addition, telepathy did not work the way humans often seemed to believe it would, could, or should.

‘ _Really_.’ Jim’s voice was rough but dry. His fingers turned restless against Spock’s, shifting for better purchase. ‘You can’t even _begin_ to understand what we could find so appealing about that? Use your imagination, Spock. I know you’ve got one.’

‘Imagination is not one of the characteristics required for a first officer,’ Spock said.

‘Good thing you’re more than my first officer, then,’ Jim replied.

The wink was implied. Though Spock had not seen it and could not be sure, he found he could picture it in his mind as clearly as if it had come to pass. He did not normally indulge in speculation, but for Jim he could assume one or two reasonable predictions.

‘Imagination is a quality favored in your romantic partners?’

Jim made a thick, viscous sound. He was either clearing his nasal passages or attempting to laugh. Or both simultaneously. It was not beyond Jim’s capabilities to express multiple emotions at once, betraying both efficiency and mental disorganization in the same breath.

‘I told you about the girls with the tails, right?’

‘Differences in anatomy aside,’ Spock began.

‘No, all right, look.’ Jim tightened his fingers against Spock’s as he fought to sit up against the headboard. It was only a few, slippery seconds before he readjusted to their former terms. ‘When you’re working with someone, when you’re—testing a cadet, say. Running the same damn exam you do _every day,_ and it’s all the same scenarios, one right after another. Only suddenly you get someone and they come up with something _new._ It’s a fresh take, a solution you’ve never seen before. _And_ they pull it off. That’s exciting, isn’t it? Gets your blood going. Your blood _does_ get going, right?’

‘Our arterial pressure is not comparable to normal human rates,’ Spock said.

Confirmation by tacit omission. Jim was perceptive enough to read it as such, though he would not be dissuaded from his immediate target. ‘ _And?_ ’

Spock had already considered the merits of the proposal. ‘...I suppose.’

‘Right, you suppose.’ Jim relaxed, satisfied. He dabbed beneath his chin with the edge of his sleeve, drying his skin where the rivulets of melted ice were pooling in the hollow of his throat. It was his second cold bath of the evening. ‘That’s imagination: makes the enjoyable stuff? _Even better_. Gives you something to look forward to. You’d better _believe_ I’m not about to marry someone who can’t think their way out of a paper bag creatively.’

Spock felt instinctively that an insult had been dealt, and yet he could not place its location.

‘This OK?’ Jim asked. He rubbed a wet thumb against Spock’s knuckles.

‘The cold dulls the sensation,’ Spock admitted. ‘But not its effect.’

Ice could numb the skin, but relative fluctuations in temperature did not, to Spock’s knowledge, have much effect on telepathic range.

‘Guess you never have to give anybody a penny for their thoughts, huh?’ Jim said.

Doctor McCoy had once called the expression Spock now wore ‘quizzical’ before appending the description, ‘as damn unlikely as _that_ seems on a _Vulcan_ , mind.’ ‘The matter of where I would find a penny to begin with aside, that is a most curious bargain.’

‘Some people’s thoughts aren’t worth too much, I guess.’

‘On that, I do concur.’

‘Nice, Spock. You’re damn sassy when you want to be, aren’t you?’ Jim had begun to grin again—yet another in the rapidly expanding compendium. This one, too, had no precedent, no translation, and merely an abundance of heat and charm to differentiate it from the myriad others in Jim’s lexicon.

Yet as Jim spoke—inconsequential words, a patter like rainfall, or white noise—he maintained their contact: two hands together in a display that, on Vulcan, would have been over-long and likely obscene.

The conversation was the distraction, a sleight of hand, or even ventriloquism. Jim cast his voice while his actions arrived in its shadow. Stealth and subterfuge—neither were qualities Spock had originally attributed to James T. Kirk, nor were they listed on his personnel file. But now it was clear that despite his inability to remain anywhere other than the center of an orbit—and any potential attention—there were subtleties of action within that system. A deceptively obvious individual—who was currently watching Spock from underneath raised brows, the discoloration of a bruise blooming across the bridge of his nose.

‘Anyway,’ Jim said, the thickness of tone once more returned and unaffected by numerous swallows, suggesting his throat was tight, or there was something lodged in the back of it, ‘this way, when our hosts ask us tomorrow, we can say we were kissing _basically_ all night.’ He rubbed his thumb over Spock’s without direction, chasing something that might not have existed at all. ‘...In a manner of speaking. Your manner of speaking. You won’t have to lie. I can do all of that stuff, but if they want your take on it, there it is.’

Spock tilted his head to the side; the better to see their hands together on the sheets. ‘As assisted by the pleasurable synthetic fiber,’ he added, ‘thoughtfully provided by the Deltan ambassador.’

Jim chuckled again, hoarsely, then cleared his throat. ‘Exactly. There you go. It’s not about making stuff up out of thin air, it’s more about...working with what you’ve got. Bending the truth a little.’

‘I have noticed your fondness for the pastime.’

‘Have you?’ Jim lifted his eyes. Spock had kept count of how many times it had been in twenty-four hours, a number higher than expected. Seventy-seven, now, and more data was certain to present itself. ‘You’re pretty perceptive, even without the...’ Jim wiggled his fingers atop the back of Spock’s hand. ‘...the whole touch-telepathy thing.’

‘That,’ Spock replied, ‘ _is_ a talent required of a first officer.’

‘A good one, anyway,’ Jim said.

He had not looked away.

There was more to notice about his eyes than anything out of the ordinary; simply their color, their intensity and their shadows were without satisfactory description, though the closest Spock could manage for comparison’s sake was a reflection nebula, as those were most commonly a similar shade of blue.

Jim cleared his throat once more, the interruption quickly turning into a chuckle. ‘What’s that whole deal like on the _rest_ of the body, anyway? I mean, you’ve _gotta_ tell me you’ve tried it at least once. Just for, I don’t know, science’s sake. Think of the _possibilities._ ’

Despite the humor in Jim’s topical shift, Spock did not believe it had touched his eyes. Like light being scattered by space dust—this was no true emission, but rather a distant reflection.

‘I cannot tell you something simply because you wish to hear it said,’ Spock replied.

Soon after, Jim retracted his hand. They lay on opposite sides of the bed, pillows between them, in the darkness of the honeymoon suite. Spock knew that Jim was asleep long before he began to snore and even had the noise been negligible, Spock had enough on his mind that he did not slip into meditative rest for many hours after the twitching of Jim’s body and the evenness of his breathing signaled he was somewhere deep in private dreaming.

*


	6. VI.

Jim revealed once more his predilection for rising early. When Spock came out of his meditative trance, Jim was already awake and, at some point, he had dragged a chair from the rose-filled sitting room into their bedroom, as he was now sitting in it with his feet braced on the bed, face bathed in the reflected luminescence of his PADD.

The sight made Spock wonder whether it would be prudent for him to recalibrate his own sleeping patterns to more accurately match his captain’s. Not for the benefit of the Deltans specifically; productivity would no doubt improve if they rose at the same time, as they had retired the night before.

However, the Jim before him now was a far cry from the one who had stumbled in to every previous breakfast meeting, half awake with his hair standing in multiple directions, eyes the red-rimmed cast that Spock had observed during their first day on Delta IV.

It was possible that for the first time Jim was _sleeping_ , rather than trading his night’s rest away for forms of physical stimulation experienced within the bedroom. Spock did not imagine that Jim would consider the deal a worthy one, and yet the evidence was here for them both to observe. They could draw their own conclusions based on performance and energy levels.

‘Captain’s log, stardate 2260.55.’ Jim’s voice was barely audible, a touch that the archivists would not have cause to appreciate as much as Spock. ‘Day three of talks on Delta IV. No complications. Doctor McCoy has everyone on alert to report to him if they start feeling the effects of Deltan pheromone saturation. Nothing else to report at present. Kirk out.’

Spock’s eyebrow lifted of its own accord. Jim met his gaze over the glowing horizon’s edge of his PADD. He had known that Spock was awake and had chosen to file his statement anyway, without including the extenuating circumstances.

Such unpredictable behavior should not have been a source of perpetual surprise for Spock. He allowed the emotion to pass through him with the acknowledgment that this _would_ be the last time.

‘Something to add, First Officer Spock?’ Jim joggled the mattress with his foot. This, too, was becoming a pattern. Spock could now note two mornings in a row upon which he had awoken to find Jim agitating his place of rest.

‘I imagine that when you said _no complications,_ what you meant was that there were no complications you deemed worthy of Starfleet’s attention.’ Spock sat up, making a survey of his surroundings. Beyond the obvious—beyond Jim, who drew attention in advance of anything else.

At some point, he had discarded the covers. Pleasurable synthetic fiber or not, it was warm with a second body in the bed, and Spock had not seen the need for both. The sheets were appropriately rumpled, as would be expected from two separate parties with separate sleep cycles sharing the same confined space. Nothing untoward had taken place, but Spock’s memory of Jim’s fingers against his, ice melting across the bruised bridge of his nose from the shared heat of their skin, remained a vivid one.

Spock could not lie, but he would not find cause to here. As with so many undertakings headed by the captain, they had cut closer to the heart of the thing than intended. The space between truth and the fiction of their relationship was growing...negligible.

As with most of Jim’s favorite scenarios, a definition of reality depended more on a skilled interpretation of events than on the events themselves.

‘Now you’re getting it,’ Jim said. His accompanying grin was washed out in blue light. ‘No reason to worry the higher ups with a little detail like _First Officer Spock and I might’ve gotten_ _diplomatically engaged,_ right? And they’re not gonna care—not as long as we wiggle our way into a fair resource agreement. Meaningless, really. Silly details.’

‘A wonder you even saw fit to file a prompt report,’ Spock said, ‘if the proceedings taking place at our negotiations with the Deltans are truly as insignificant as you suggest.’

Jim’s smiled turned crooked, tonguing a chapped spot at the corner of his mouth. He drummed his fingers against the side of the PADD, in a fair imitation of his own behavior in the captain’s chair before he commanded _onscreen._

Spock was not a rogue element hailed from a distant starship, however. He was close enough to touch.

‘I’m not _just_ filing prompt reports,’ Jim said. A feint and dodge at the last minute, swiftly wrenching the conversation starboard. ‘I’ve got ship maintenance reports to go over, crew logs… A _very_ lovely collection of suggested flower arrangements from Sulu, remind me to dock his pay, something about garter ceremonies from Scotty… I think there’s a mutiny happening on my ship, Spock. I truly do. Oh, and Uhura wants to know if I’ve tried blowing in your ear yet, since, and I quote, _that’s the kind of thing dumb hicks do when they’re trying to seduce you in a bar_. She is _never_ gonna let that _go_.’

‘Nyota Uhura _is_ tenacious,’ Spock replied.

Jim’s attention returned to his PADD screen, rapidly familiarizing himself with the data. A human study technique—Spock had never found it necessary to resort to tricks of any kind when it came to processing and storing information, but given Jim’s strong test results and his ability to synthesize innovative solutions from a breadth of knowledge, it was clear that he managed to retain more than the multitude of sound beatings his cranial region had received would otherwise suggest.

‘Yeah,’ Jim agreed. ‘She mentioned tenacity in regards to those ears, too. Something about biting ‘em and not letting go... Good thing _those_ aren’t going in the reports back home either, am I right?’

Spock sat, returned the pillows to their original position, and reclaimed his own PADD to catch up on that morning’s work. Though a minor part of him anticipated some form of interruption—the aforementioned ear blowing one of many options open for Jim’s amusement—the room remained quiet and peaceful, an ideal environment for mental functions and focus. The sound of Jim’s steady breathing and the distant flicker of PADD light against his face faded into barely noticeable background activity, and Spock had soon finished his regular duties as well as the unexpected task of maintenance on private communications amongst the crew.

Without the Deltan negotiations to keep them entertained, they could do little other than discuss—Spock believed the most accurate description of their behavior was _gossip_ , of the _idle_ sub-section—their captain and first officer’s fictional nuptials. Montgomery Scott had begun a thread, with multiple contributors, devoted to forming a consolidated wedding gift plan, upon which a number of suggestions, each more ludicrous than the last, revealed the crew was growing restless.

‘Did you get to the part where _somebody_ —and I’m not gonna name names, but,’ Jim coughed at first, it seemed, in response to the residual pollen on his chair, ‘ _Scotty_ , ahem—suggested traditional Vulcan eyeshadow for both of us.’ He had spoken without looking up, another action which mimicked the good timing of melded minds surprisingly well.

‘I am currently on his and hers phasers,’ Spock replied.

‘That’d be Sulu, I think. Not a bad idea.’

‘A functional gift, in comparison. Yet not necessary, as we are here with perfectly functioning phasers already.’

‘Yeah, but these’d be special. Besides,’ Jim added, finally lifting his eyes, ‘it’s less risky than the bath oils.’

‘Your frequent allergic reactions are cause for medical concern, captain.’

‘Born in space. What can I say?’ Jim switched off his PADD, resting it against his thighs as he stretched. ‘Wasn’t introduced to enough germs during that vital anti-allergens stage or...whatever it is. Anyway, I know from bad, _bad_ personal experience that bath oils can backfire in a _big_ way if you start swelling in all the wrong places.’

Spock made note in the appropriate response channel that bath oils were explicitly out of the question for medical reasons. He would have to trust that the crew would still be able to attend to their Enterprise duties as outlined in the prime directive, though it was more likely that the input would be read as encouragement.

‘Don’t worry about the ship, Spock,’ Jim said. Another moment of uncanny prescience. ‘They know what they’re doing up there. Let them have a little fun. You know if they aren’t at the wedding, we’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘You do not think—’ Spock began, but Jim was already standing, setting aside his PADD, the oddly peaceful ritual of the ‘morning routine’ ended, as it had been certain to eventually.

‘You never know what’s going to happen when Deltans are involved,’ Jim replied. ‘This little mission’s been _full_ of surprises already. Are you with me, Spock?’

‘I am with you,’ Spock replied.

‘Hang on.’ Jim paused just in front of the door, turning around to look Spock over from head to toe. ‘...You could stand to look a little more...flushed, Spock.’

‘Flushed, captain?’

‘In order to reinforce the impression the Deltans are going to want to get,’ Jim explained, ‘that we’ve been putting their little love-nest to good use.’

Love-nests and loveseats. There was much Spock had to learn about the specificities of interior decorating.

‘It is not a reaction I can command at will,’ Spock confessed.

‘Good.’ Jim was abruptly close, the timbre of his voice both deeper and softer, something Spock had to lean closer to hear. ‘I mean, you never know with Vulcans; maybe waiting around for someone else to get you off counts as inefficient. Guess that’d make me pretty...vestigial wouldn’t it?’

‘The use of that term suggests…’ Spock had neither the time nor the space to finish his thought, trailing off as Jim put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in, close enough to hide his face. A warm pulse of air gusted against the tragus and lobe of Spock’s outer ear.

The effect was instantaneous—marginally less so than if Jim had chosen to apply his mouth directly to Spock’s fingers, but that was the only advantage Spock could find in the situation. Spock’s breathing shortened and he made an effort to draw it out, burying the hitch where it would rest unnoticed; Jim’s fingers shifted against Spock’s shoulder, a minute rub forward and back that was either designed to shore up his own resolve or reassure Spock of the fact that his captain had not succumbed to Deltan pheromone madness.

The reassurance fell, as humans were fond of saying, on deaf ears.

Spock’s teeth were clenched, his jaw tight. Every time he resolved to speak he felt Jim’s breath on his ear, raising electric impulses along the length of his neck; in contrast, there was the steady, heavy hand against his chest. One touch designed specifically for provocation, and another for stability.

Jim was a man who enjoyed contradictions; Spock was used to straddling the rules of two worlds.

His eyes had shut and he could not pinpoint the exact moment when they had done so, although the action was understandable—an attempt at blocking out some of the extraneous stimuli in the room around him the better to deal with the one stimulus he could not. If Jim was committed to provoking a reaction then it made sense to bolster the efficiency of the moment so that he would be met with satisfaction and move on.

Still. It would help to have some confirmation of Jim’s intentions, so that Spock would have a better chance in assisting him.

‘Jim.’

The modulation of his voice could not be regulated. It was only one syllable, and yet Spock did not need to hear it repeated to know that he had fallen short of his carefully controlled responses.

Jim’s breath angled higher, blowing against the antihelix and the navicular fossa. Spock had time to note the change in direction but it did not offer enough warning to adjust before Jim’s teeth latched onto the soft lobe of Spock’s ear and tugged.

Spock’s knees buckled.

The lapse was momentary, a matter of seconds before the joints locked back into place and he was steady, as certain of gravity as ever. But he had felt it. Jim, standing as close as he did, would no doubt have felt it too. Spock’s body had never before failed him; he was in the prime of his youth, the prime of his life. With all joints, tendons and muscles operating in exacting harmony, no part fell short.

Jim’s grip had tightened considerably. His fingers were wrinkling the blue fabric of Spock’s uniform. That small, nearly insignificant detail would add to the necessary illusion that the two of them had been…

Doing exactly what they were doing.

A knock at the door interrupted Spock from any further anatomical misfires. He did not recover his composure swiftly, for that had been the purpose of Jim’s actions all along.

A complication of allergens, Spock considered, would be an apt title for his next report.

‘Good.’ Jim’s face swam into view in front of Spock’s. His mouth was red, lips shining and damp. Spock’s neck felt equally damp. ‘Good—that’s... You’re looking green around the gills, Spock, but I’m gonna assume that means something better for you than it would for me.’

‘Vulcan blood is copper based, a fact of which you are well-aware,’ Spock began. If Jim wished to hear him enumerate the effects of his experiment firsthand, he was going to be waiting a long time.

‘Damn it, man, open the door!’ While McCoy had learned to knock, it seemed he had not yet adopted the patience that came with it.

Jim lingered for a moment longer in Spock’s immediate space before achieving escape velocity and shifting free of Spock’s minor gravitational pull. They were two bodies—not celestial—but all matter had its own force of gravity. Without further interference, Spock attempted to smooth down the front of his uniform over his chest and stomach as Jim let the doctor in, then leaned casually against the doorframe, elbow bent, cheek resting against his shoulder.

‘Morning, Bones,’ he said. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

‘Deltan pheromones, that’s what.’ McCoy had his body scanner out and began to inspect Jim at once. He was, despite or even due to his constant sense of urgency, always efficient. The scanner hummed; McCoy frowned. ‘Just what I suspected. Elevated internal temperatures.’

‘Vulcans,’ Jim replied. ‘...They’re hot. And I mean that literally, Bones, not...whatever it is you were obviously thinking I meant. _Naughty_. Try to be professional, would you?’

McCoy’s eyebrows, though they lacked Vulcan specificity, were nonetheless capable of extreme acrobatics. Whether they worked separately or together did not affect their momentum, and Spock did have to wonder—not for the first time—whether or not the doctor exhibited any control over them whatsoever.

‘It’s a routine checkup. I’m just one man trying to make sure all the ambient Deltan _mojo_ isn’t scrambling our hardware into yesterday’s breakfast.’ McCoy turned on Spock to continue his inspection. ‘Not that I can ever tell what _your_ hardware’s supposed to be in the first place.’

‘Logical,’ Spock replied. ‘It is logical.’

Jim snorted on a choked laugh, then pretended he had been overcome by the urge to cough. ‘More roses,’ he explained. ‘They’re really—hoo, that’s some serious pollen. Any needles around you want to stick me with, Bones? That always makes you feel better, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, don’t tempt me.’ McCoy busied himself with scowling at Spock’s scans. ‘Is it just me, or are you running hotter than usual, yourself?’

‘You _are_ the doctor,’ Spock said.

‘ _Now_ he develops a sense of humor.’

‘The response was not intended to be humorous, doctor, merely a statement of fact.’

‘Right,’ McCoy replied. ‘You’re not giving me sass, and I’m my own damned uncle.’

That would, Spock considered, have explained a great deal.

‘Feeling flushed?’ McCoy hesitated, as though for the first time he had considered actually observing his patient and processing the results of his observation. ‘...My God, man—you’re practically green!’

‘Which is why we’ve got to get out of here,’ Jim said. ‘Before it wears off.’

‘Wears off?’ McCoy could no more resist Jim’s gravity than Spock could allow himself to fall behind and leave them to the negotiations on their own. When he approached Jim, whose lips were no longer damp, whose breath could no longer be felt on Spock’s skin as anything more than a ghost of memory, Jim strayed closer to Spock than to McCoy, though the two often made gestures that bespoke physical intimacy. ‘Is this some _Vulcan_ thing I’m going to have nightmares about for the rest of my life— _if_ it lasts that long, given the trouble you’ve _already_ dragged me into?’

‘They gave us the room,’ Jim explained. ‘Honeymoon suite, Bones. Can’t offend our hosts. Deltans are a big deal.’

‘When we get out of here,’ McCoy replied, ‘I’m sending my thoughts on future missions to Delta IV back to Starfleet. You want to know my professional opinion, Jim?’

‘Always, Bones; always.’

‘This place is a pheromonal danger zone,’ McCoy said. ‘It’s a sexual minefield. Right now we’re being assaulted with low-level hormonal impulses and suggestions that _might_ just be making us _crazy_.’

‘More than ever, Bones, I’m starting to think you ought to get married. ...Again. To somebody nicer, this time. Maybe somebody more logical.’ Jim was grinning again—mischievous, impersonal, not at all secretive. ‘It does wonders for the constitution. Really relaxes you. Brings you back down so your two feet are on the ground. Head out of the clouds, somebody to sleep next to you at night—wake up, go over reports with...’ Jim sighed deeply, rubbing a spot on his chest between his ribs. ‘It does a body good, Bones.’

‘You’re a swell bastard, James T. Kirk,’ McCoy said, ‘and I’m looking forward to _this_ little engagement’s divorce.’

‘And good morning to you, Fyora.’ Jim pulled ahead to meet the Deltan in the hall, clasping her hand and making an unnecessary show of kissing her knuckles. ‘ _So_ sorry we’re late to meet you—Spock and I were having some trouble making it out on time; you know how it is.’

Spock was ready this time for the telepathic interest that raked through his keenly ordered thoughts. He knew that in comparison with his composure yesterday at this same hour, Fyora would sense something was off. It was, Spock understood, exactly what Jim had planned for.

Any discomfort Spock felt under the scrutiny of the moment would be mistaken for Vulcan propriety—his desire to keep their private life behind closed doors.

A very logical desire, as far as Spock was concerned. But he had noted that other humanoid races, Deltans and humans especially, preferred to keep their logic as far from their desires as possible.

‘Yes; I can see that.’ Fyora’s gaze remained on Spock’s face, the wrinkling in his shirt, and especially those spots where he had not tried to smooth it out completely.

Spock had no way of ascertaining what it was she had seen. It would have been highly inappropriate to ask.

‘Hey, now.’ Jim held his hands up, drawing focus back to himself. ‘Eyes off the fiancé, miss. I can tell what you’re thinking—and that’s only because we think so much alike. You’re looking ravishing, by the way, have I mentioned that yet? Your eyes… That green is _stunning._ Literally, I’m stunned. You should feel my heart, make sure it’s still working.’

Fyora  seemed all too happy to oblige, putting a hand on his chest.

‘Christ, it’s like the ghost of my ex-wife,’ McCoy said. He did not stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Spock, but rather lingered behind him, much like the very specter of which he complained. ‘You ever want to get a drink and talk duplicitous spouses, Spock, well...’ His gaze turned sidelong, taking in Spock as though it had only just occurred to him who he was speaking to. ‘On second thought—don’t get any bright ideas. I don’t want any part in this farce.’

‘There is nothing farcical about our situation, save for your implication that the captain would ever engage in disloyal behavior,’ Spock replied. Their conversation was not for the benefit of Fyora; they did not hold it at a pitch which would normally reach her ears, and it was evident from her expression that Jim was the center and entirety of her considerable attention.

Still, they had gone to great lengths to keep up appearances. It would not do to allow their work to unravel with a moment’s carelessness, something McCoy did not seem to understand.

McCoy rolled his eyes. ‘And I suppose _that’s_ supposed to be, what? Being friendly? Giving her the Deltan salutation? I thought you two… _You_ know _._ Got engaged to _curtail_ this oncoming disaster.’

‘There is no disaster,’ Spock said. Fyora touched Jim’s hair, then ran a hand over her own smooth, bald head. An unconventional cultural exchange. ‘It is my understanding that men and women of all races form lasting friendships across gender lines. Now that the Deltan ambassador understands the captain is spoken for, the threat no longer remains.’

‘ _Spoken for_.’ McCoy snorted. He looked as if he could have drained the contents of Jim’s minibar in their shared honeymoon suite. Perhaps he was in need of a tranquilizer. ‘If you think that makes a lick of difference to anyone with a working libido, Spock, you’d better think again.’

Spock had never been given cause or inclination to delve into the history of Leonard McCoy’s marriage prior to his Starfleet service, but his occasional cryptic comments painted a rather vivid, if one-sided, picture.

It was clear that his disdain for Spock and Jim’s method of deception was centered around a private, deeper feeling about the act of marriage itself.

‘Well, you’re doing a real good job of playing jealous spouse, with all that staring,’ McCoy added.

Fyora and Jim turned to enter the meeting hall. Jim held the door for her, a meaningless gesture since all the points of entry and exit in the Deltan chambers were mechanized, and ran on electric circuitry.

‘I am not staring,’ Spock replied. ‘I am attempting to ascertain standard human flirtation with regards to other races. You do not adapt your behaviors, but merely proceed as if the object of your affections was human themselves. Is this correct?’ 

‘Well, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ McCoy said.

‘If that is meant to serve as answer or clarification, it has done neither,’ Spock informed him.

McCoy heaved a sigh. ‘If something works on _one_ person, or one race, you assume it’ll work on the next person. Or alien. Or blue-headed, purple-eyed orangutan.’

‘A startling insight, doctor,’ Spock said.

‘Don’t sound so surprised—I’ll have you know, I can be a startlingly insightful guy,’ McCoy replied.

That remained to be seen on a sustainable scale. Nonetheless, Spock was grateful. ‘I am thankful you chose to share it with me, and I plan to contemplate the implications of that statement in the future.’

‘Some people just say _thanks_ , Spock,’ McCoy said. ‘Simple as that. ...But coming from you? I’ll take what I can get.’

He did not hold the door open for Spock as he had seen—another moment of startling insight—that such a gesture was, to use Jim’s earlier term, vestigial. And Jim was already within, seated beside Fyora, the two of them laughing together conspiratorially. However, when Spock took stock of the room and its inhabitants, he sensed no nascent hostility; the Deltan ambassador especially appeared appeased, and never more so than when he saw the wrinkle in the front of Spock’s blue shirt as he took his place at Jim’s side.

Success—as a term on this particular mission—had become more than relative.

*

It was not until the evening—after as much progress regarding aqueduct funding could be made before conversation once again turned to human matrimonial ceremony and courtship practices—that the weight of Doctor McCoy’s startling insight unfurled its full potential.

_What is sauce for the goose_ —Spock had first attempted to consider its local origins, and had even done private research during the break for mid-afternoon refreshments in order to familiarize himself with the colloquialism. Setting aside the matter of earthen water-fowl, the metaphor was overly colorful but unexpectedly apt.

What was sauce for the goose, in this particular instance, was the matter of kisses. Not first kisses, but kissing in general.

If Jim was the metaphorical goose and Spock the metaphorical gander, then the metaphorical sauce that suited them both could not, in good conscience, be Vulcan alone.

Metaphorically speaking.

‘Looks like the blush is off the rose,’ Jim told him, in the process of eating another, less displeasing ‘hamburger’, the proper assembly of which Fyora herself had overseen. She took great delight in watching Jim exclaim over it when it was presented to him at their dinner, and the Deltan ambassador delighted in her delight, and Jim delighted in the hamburger itself, while Spock delighted in nothing, choosing simply to acknowledge that tensions had diminished substantially enough that no one felt the need to worry over romantic entanglements. ‘S’what’s known as a _double date_ , Spock. You don’t have to blush during it, though, but you could at least loosen up a little.’

‘Vulcans are not loose,’ Spock replied.

Jim’s grin was distracted by the presence of the hamburger. ‘Yeah, no kidding.’

His reply was cryptic. Spock puzzled over its meaning—clearly emotional, oblique enough that it remained obscure. Yet to admit that it was ‘a human thing’ and leave it at that was by no means good enough.

‘ _God_ , that was good.’ Jim leaned back in his cheer with a sigh of what Fyora responded to as though it were a sexually primal satisfaction. ‘Delta IV: my home away from home. Spock, c’mon, we’ve gotta vacation here sometime. ...When we get the chance. Five year mission might make it difficult for a while, but this... This is always going to remind me of the best about our romance. And it’s all thanks to you.’

‘The moonlight is at least partly to blame,’ Fyora suggested. There were multiple moons orbiting Delta IV; Spock knew their names and classifications without having to look up at them. ‘Humans are partial to moonlight, are they not?’

‘And dining like this, _al fresco_...’ Jim had settled, in a manner of speaking; after an entire evening in which he had devoted his attentions to a Deltan, he at last stretched an arm over Spock’s shoulders. ‘I mean, It’s a dream. Better than most of the views you get out of a starship, and I’m not just saying that to flatter you. ...But if I was, would you say it worked?’

‘He is charming,’ Fyora said. Spock realized a second later that she had directed this statement to him rather than to Jim—a second too long, though she did not seem to begrudge him the pause.

‘He...is,’ Spock managed. ‘He scored highly on all of his—’ Jim squeezed Spock’s shoulder. ‘—he is very talented,’ Spock concluded, and Jim’s grip eased.

‘You had best keep a close eye on him,’ Fyora added. Now, she seemed to believe that they, too, had fostered enough familiarity to become conspirators. ‘And an even tighter hold.’

‘At present, he is the one keeping a tight hold on me,’ Spock replied.

‘Well, I have to, don’t I?’ Jim entered the conversation as though to do so involved evasive maneuvers. ‘You know how people feel about Vulcans, right? They’re all, _I feel nothing_ , and we’re all, _oh, we’ll see about that_. It’s damn near irresistible.’

Spock had never heard attraction, physical or otherwise, described in such terms. It made more sense than the overly poetic and romanticized descriptors humans applied to such behavior. The instinct to respond and overcome when presented with a challenge was innately a human one, and also one which Jim in particular had displayed on multiple occasions.

There was nothing as tempting as being presented with that which he could not conquer.

‘Your courtship must have been thrilling.’ Fyora’s smile was bright and wide. Deltan features were more symmetrical than those of humans—one of many reasons they were viewed as attractive romantic partners. She leaned around the table to put her hand on Spock’s knee. ‘Tell me—was your captain’s pursuit very unnerving? Humans can be _so_ enthusiastic. We take it for granted here, but I imagine for someone of your constitution…’

Jim cleared his throat. It was evident that he was eager to speak. But the question had been addressed to Spock, not Jim, and Spock would not shirk his duties as they had been set down. After all—something McCoy had been all too happy to remind him—it was due to Spock’s quick thinking that they were in this position to begin with.

‘There were many things about the captain I found alarming,’ Spock began. Fyora settled back against the Deltan ambassador’s chest, as if he were an extension of the bench. ‘At first, I dismissed his actions as part of an obscure human prank.’

Fyora laughed. Her hand, which had remained unnoticed on Spock’s knee, slid higher.

‘ _But_ ,’ Jim prompted.

‘But…he is persistent,’ Spock said.

It was evident from Jim’s weary exhale that this choice of descriptors was a disappointment. Spock’s gifts did not lie in elaborating on dubious truths. Neither could he see the value in trotting out the anecdotes of their relationship, nor what entertainment they might hold for anyone who had not themselves experienced it.

‘The captain—Jim,’ Spock corrected course as Jim kicked him under the table, ‘flourishes when presented with any difficulty to surmount or problem to solve. I first observed this tendency while administering a test at Starfleet Academy; subsequently, I was given the opportunity to see him apply those same skills in the field while aboard the Enterprise. It is my belief, therefore, that I must have presented a similar...impenetrability that he was naturally drawn to.’

If it had been possible for Spock to indulge in surprise, he would have been startled to realize how close he was able to hew to the truth. There was little to no exaggeration included in his version of events.

After all, he knew well how Jim had always viewed the no-win scenario. It was something to attack, to prove himself against. Even after they had confronted the lesson together, head on, Jim was still standing.

Just now he was sitting, side by side with Spock, his right leg pressed against Spock’s left beneath the table.

The moonlight did not resemble the light in engineering, but it washed Jim’s skin with a rosy color all the same. They were in a garden, not a reactor chamber. There was no glass between them. Jim’s arm was a steadying weight around Spock’s shoulder.

‘Hey,’ Jim murmured low, not against Spock’s ear but near to it. Fyora’s head was bowed in momentary, private discussion with the Deltan ambassador. ‘Kirk to Enterprise. That was pretty good. You still in there?’

‘I was…thinking,’ Spock replied.

A sentient being, Vulcan or human, could not logically be considered in the same terms: measured by wins or losses. It was irrational to place himself in the same category as the philosophies to which Jim ascribed. And yet, there were undeniable similarities.

Spock was given no further opportunity to contemplate the matter of no-win interpersonal scenarios, as Fyora had recalibrated her attentions and was smiling pointedly at them, the Deltan ambassador smiling with her. Spock could easily sense the united front they presented—not of diplomatic solidarity, but of personal interest.

At Spock’s side, Jim cleared his throat. More susceptible to Deltan suggestion he may have been and less aware of telepathic impulses he certainly was, but he was able to ‘read a room’, as Doctor McCoy often called the talent. Whether he chose to ignore what he had read was another matter entirely.

Spock lifted a brow just as the Deltan ambassador cleared his throat.

‘We would be delighted if you would join us tonight in our private chambers,’ the Deltan ambassador said. ‘Fyora and I find ourselves mesmerized by your stories; what better way to understand them than by experiencing them?’

‘Now that’s what I call a real go-to-it-ive-ness,’ Jim replied. ‘If only every human was more straightforward about what they wanted... Well, we wouldn’t have the need for diplomats, that’s for sure.’ Jim wore his smile without meaning, a pleasant but guarded expression that did not offend because it did not offer. ‘But, if there were no need for diplomats, then I wouldn’t have been able to meet _you_ two, so I guess, in the end, things are the way they are for _some_ kind of reason.’

‘A lovely philosophy,’ Fyora said.

‘You know what they say—it takes one to know one.’ Only Spock could feel the tension in Jim’s posture as it traveled through the press of his palm against Spock’s shoulder. ‘You two have _no_ idea how tempting you’re being right now, do you?’

‘On the contrary,’ the Deltan ambassador said.

‘We have _some_ idea,’ Fyora confirmed.

‘You’re absolutely gonna have to teach me how to do that just a _little_ before I leave Delta IV. Promise?’ Jim employed a favorite gesture, making a phaser of his fingers, training it on an invisible target. This time, he did not invisibly fire. ‘But—and it kills me to say this, honestly; my heart’s breaking, here—you know how Vulcans are about the rules, and this one’s no exception. Before we got ourselves engaged he read up on _all_ the necessary human marriage procedures—can’t commit to something unless he’s living by the guidebook, you know? So he takes the whole love, honor, cherish, obey, _stay faithful_ parts as seriously as you can expect. Spock here... Well, unlike me, he doesn’t break rules. And between you and me,’ Jim leaned forward, an act of commiseration emphasized when he took both of Fyora’s hands in his and kissed one after the other, ‘I think that kind of strict adherence to doing things the right way _maybe_ turns him on.’

‘Fascinating,’ the Deltan ambassador said.

_Fascinating_ was along the same lines of what Spock was currently thinking, as well.

‘We understand, of course.’ Fyora’s disappointment was tempered by renewed interest. As long as Jim was able to keep the playing field uneven and their position unknown, the guessing game would remain an enjoyable one. He was still able to provide them a challenge—which would make a fine balm for the wound of rejection. ‘It _is_ , however, a pity.’

‘I’m feeling pretty pitiable about it right now,’ Jim replied. ‘Speaking of which—Spock, you think you can kiss it and make it better for me?’

Spock allowed the internal reflex to reach fruition, as a slight blush would work to Jim’s benefit. Fyora touched Spock’s cheek at the hollow where the green color was, however faintly, noticeable, and Jim commiserated once again by sighing before she did.

‘He’s not too bad to look at, either, is he?’ he said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I think we’re going to need to put that _fantastic_ honeymoon suite to some more use—it’d be a crime if we didn’t. A crime against humanity _and_ Delta IV, not to mention your excellent hospitality.’

‘Go, with our best wishes,’ Fyora replied. ‘But if you find yourself reconsidering the offer...’

‘You’ll be the first to know. You’ll probably know before _I_ do.’ Jim began to stand and Spock was quick to follow. Jim kept his arm around Spock’s shoulders—a necessary precaution to reinforce _their_ united front—all the way inside, out of the moonlight, away from the Deltans, their thorns, their offers and their roses.

*


	7. VII.

When they returned to their honeymoon suite—the etymology of which Spock still had not gleaned—someone had been by to confiscate the floral arrangements.

Spock was briefly visited by the image of Leonard McCoy, increasingly agitated at the center of an ambulatory rose garden. The amusement it conjured did not achieve the proper response, which should have been gratitude.

Jim rolled his neck, lifting his right shoulder until the accompanying joint popped.

‘Home sweet home, am I right? Nothing like it.’

His back was to Spock, making it impossible to read his expression. There was also the use of that familiar terminology—affiliating sweetness with something pleasurable.

‘Think I’ll turn in early,’ Jim added.

‘Captain.’ Spock found his voice one beat too late, for Jim had already started across the sitting room and up toward the master bedroom. It was far more difficult to halt Jim’s momentum once it had been set in motion; easier to catch him in the moments between, when he finally rested, scarce though those might have been.

True to form, Jim did not stop, but climbed the three steps and passed through the doors. It was not a dismissal; rather, Spock was expected to follow. Jim did not sit still for long, yet he had spent the entire night doing just that. Until the end of their evening, of course, when he had taken an unexpected energy towards escape.

‘Son of a _bitch,_ ’ Jim said.

Spock hastened to join him.

Within the bedroom, Jim’s posture was tense, his arms at his side and his shoulders taut, in a shadow’s image of how he commanded the bridge in combat scenarios. There was no enemy within the room, but the object of his indignation was made obvious as soon as Spock’s gaze shifted to the bed. The roses had not been removed at all. Instead, a creative Deltan had gone so far as to have them repurposed. Where once there had been only synthetic fibers of pleasurable consistency, there was now a lush carpeting of rich, red petals.

‘This is _biological warfare_ , that’s what this is.’ Jim’s nose wrinkled. ‘The Deltans don’t like us; they hate us, and they’re trying to kill us. ...Hang on. Do I sound like Bones?’

‘I will have them removed,’ Spock said. ‘…Discreetly.’

‘Good dodge, Spock.’ Jim sat down on the end of the bed, flying in the face of necessary precaution. ‘But you can drop the diplomatic bullshit when it’s just you and me.’

Spock had observed a small incinerator in the entry hall of their room, no doubt for the convenience of the maintenance staff. He set to the task of gathering the petals, although there were more of them than his initial estimate had supposed.

‘I owe you a debt of gratitude,’ he said. ‘I was not certain you would see fit to extract us from the Deltan ambassador’s offer.’

‘You thought I’d go in for the telepathic orgy, huh?’ Jim rubbed his eyes, in direct violation of all counsel given to him when grappling with a mild allergic response. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t _tempted_ , but… Spock, what are you even— You look like you’re making a reverse snow angel.’

‘I am removing a known allergen from effective range,’ Spock said.

It should have been obvious.

‘No, you were _thanking_ me,’ Jim replied. ‘And I was basking in it. Tell me more about this debt. Is it literal? Is it a Vulcan thing? Do you grant me three wishes that turn on me in some horrible, unexpected, morality tale kind of way?’

Spock was beginning to regret having spoken, but he knew Jim well enough to recognize when he was being baited. The conversation could wait until he had taken care of the roses.

‘Spock, Jesus, I’ll take care of it.’ Jim stood, tugging an end of the blanket loose where it had been folded and tucked under. Spock had the presence of mind to step aside just as Jim lifted and snapped, sending a wave of propulsion across the fabric and flinging a cloud of rose petals into the air and onto the floor.

‘Hardly effective.’ Spock’s mouth felt curiously dry, as though he were the one suffering from the mix of perfume and pollen that hung in a cloud around them—though he had no known allergies to flora of any kind.

Jim rubbed his knuckles into the corner of his left eye, forcefully enough to stimulate the beginning of tear production, and all at once Spock was there, dragging him firmly aside by the wrist.

‘Are you gonna tell me about my eyes again?’ Jim asked.

‘They are red,’ Spock replied. ‘If you continue to rub them, you will only make the condition worse.’

‘That’s kind of my thing, Spock,’ Jim said.

What was sauce for the goose, Spock recalled.

There was something else that was, as Jim put it, ‘kind of’ his ‘thing’. Spock had some experience with it, enough to know that it was not without mutual stimulation. Jim looked up at him as Spock felt the pulse in his wrist quicken unevenly, another sensory bombardment—yet this one had been initiated by a conscious decision on Spock’s part, rather than a clumsy human violation of personal space.

That, Spock supposed, was sauce for the gander.

‘Everything okay there, Spock?’ Jim added.

Everything was not okay; it was not regulation; it was not standard. It was not logical, above all else, but it had ceased to be so some time before their charade had ever begun. Spock allowed himself a moment’s thoughtful study of Jim’s face—which revealed everything and nothing—before he pressed through the final, minimal distance between them and kissed Jim against his bottom lip, neither for the sake of curiosity nor for the sake of gratitude.

For whose sake, Spock did not know.

It was...thorough. It was also unexpected. Jim, who had navigated them smoothly through the dangerous and experimental waters of overly enthusiastic Deltan diplomacy, nimbly avoiding every sudden obstacle appearing in his path, did not manage to avoid this, whether or not he had seen it coming.

Then, it was finished. Jim’s respiratory system was, as Spock knew all too well, already compromised by the abundance of pollen in the air; Spock would not endanger him further. The warmth of Jim’s mouth remained on Spock’s lips as he straightened, releasing Jim’s wrist, noting for the first time what honest surprise looked like in Jim’s eyes, as well as other honesties yet unnamed. Unfamiliar; only partly unrecognizable. If Spock had been asked to offer a theory—not wager a guess—he would have determined that it could have been pleasure.

‘Now, hang on,’ Jim said.

Spock was not hanging on. He had already let go. By his empty hands, this much was obvious.

What was not obvious were the shifts in Jim’s expression: minute, focused, tense, open despite the shadows that crossed his face in increments.

‘I said hang on,’ Jim repeated. When Spock moved to step back, Jim followed; Spock had not, he realized, managed to achieve escape velocity. Not this time. And Jim, who managed even in the most unpredictable scenarios to think swiftly on his feet, caught hold of the front of Spock’s already wrinkled uniform, just below the sternum, fingers gripping the fabric tight.

‘Captain,’ Spock said, ‘it would appear that you are the one hanging on.’

Jim laughed—but only with his eyes. They wrinkled at the edges, his mouth working silently as his tongue ran over his bottom lip, then bit it, then released it. ‘No, I mean— _hell_ , Spock, I wasn’t even—that doesn’t count,’ he said finally. ‘I wasn’t ready; it doesn’t count.’

Based on the aggregate kissing data Spock had already collected, there were no precedents for a statement about what ‘counted’ and what did not ‘count’ in his...experience. It could not be called research; it was a less precise science.

‘I am not counting,’ Spock said.

‘Yeah,’ Jim replied. ‘Yeah, Spock, you count.’

They were speaking at cross-purposes. Though the conversation was in one language, they might as well have been using completely different dialects. The furrow in the center of Spock’s brow deepened and, for reasons he could not presume to interpret, that only served to make Jim’s eyes laugh even brighter. When Jim’s hold tightened—as he held on—Spock expected him to exert force. He did not expect Jim to release his grip, instead spreading his fingers out from his palm, his hand resting, splayed, on Spock’s chest.

‘Okay,’ Jim said. He licked his bottom lip again. It was crooked. ‘I’m ready now.’

It was he who kissed Spock this time; by all accounts, he was the clear initiator. But as he did so his free hand searched for Spock’s; when he found it, hanging by Spock’s side, he held it, drawing it up between them, fingers sliding between Spock’s fingers as his tongue slid against Spock’s teeth.

Spock inhaled, but he could not draw the requisite air in from Jim’s mouth alone. The action truncated itself, becoming something closer to a hiccup, as Spock’s diaphragm contracted too quickly. His lips parted under Jim’s as the touch of Jim’s fingertips turned from exploratory to thorough and conscientious. There was direction, a confidence in the caress that belied his experience.

Jim had been studying.

Briefly, Spock found himself wondering whether there had been any truth in Jim’s claim that he was reading ship maintenance reports earlier that morning. Teaching Jim the particulars of Vulcan intimacy had been a mistake, but giving him an opportunity to practice on a live test subject had been the greater of two errors.

Spock grasped that now—just as Jim had grasped his hand, fingertips trailing over his first and second knuckles. It was rapidly becoming evident that Jim was determined to applyhis newfound knowledge.

And he was not unskilled in the ways of human kissing, either.

Both at once was overpowering, the lure inimitable. Spock understood phototaxis; his brain and nervous system were considerably better-developed than that of a moth flying directly toward a flame. And yet, certain atavistic urges asserted themselves despite _himself_.

The twin approaches Jim had chosen to mount did not work at cross purpose to one another, but rather conspired together and against Spock. Jim’s teeth clipped the edge of Spock’s lower lip, biting the corner of his mouth.

It was hardly the first time Spock been given cause to examine the contradictions in his own background, the constant struggle that would always exist between his human and Vulcan halves. He had never been faced with the simultaneous appeasement of both. Of course, Jim would seek not to divide and conquer, but to take on the whole. He would not ever be content with only a part of something.

Spock was not a conquest to be won or a final training exercise to outmaneuver. But he did not feel that Jim had mistaken him for any such thing. His keen desire to be ‘ready’ was not that of a student expecting a grade, and its source was deeper and far more personal, lodged close to the very nucleus of Jim’s cellular personality.

Jim stepped back and Spock followed, crowding close. He was not aware of the bed in their periphery, so it was a surprise when Jim hit its edge and went over. He did not relinquish his grip on Spock as he dropped but pulled him down, hitching his right knee up against Spock’s left side. Their hips collided with Spock’s full weight settling into Jim’s. Jim groaned.

The kiss broke not due to intent, but because of gravity and friction, the rearrangements that proved necessary to accommodate their altered position. Jim pressed his forehead to Spock’s and solid warmth pushed against his sweat-streaked bangs.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Jim said. It did not appear to be the conscious beginning to an intelligent conversation. ‘Yeah, that’s. That’s what I’m talking about.’

‘That was not a discussion,’ Spock replied.

‘Mmph.’ Jim was winded, his face flushed for reasons that did not involve the accumulation of rose petals on the floor. His eyes were bright, if not entirely clear of redness. His chest rose and fell in rapid beats. His fingers moved against Spock’s, stroking between them and over the back of his hand, up to the root of his nail beds.

It stirred at Spock’s insides and would not allow him to settle.

‘You got me.’ Jim’s voice was lazy, his gaze lidded, but there was a tension that ran through his body like that of a predator at rest. His hand stroked down Spock’s chest, leaving a bursting trail of unexpected heat in its wake.

The restless movements of his fingers were mirrored where he strained against Spock, braced half-standing between his legs.

‘Your preferences lie in more…human activities,’ Spock said. There was no judgment in his tone, merely observation.

‘See?’ Jim was too close for Spock to see; Spock made full use of his other senses instead, heightened hearing marking each and every breath, heightened smell picking up on the scent of Jim’s skin and sweat, heightened touch resting over the pulse at Jim’s throat as it beat in and out of proper time. ‘There’s _plenty_ of stuff you can’t learn about people from a personnel file.’ Jim shaped the width and breadth of Spock’s shoulders, then his biceps, determining the shapes made by bone and flesh and especially muscle, tightening his hold to encourage an intensified proximity. If his hands transmitted any single communication, it was: _closer_. ‘Not that I mind the other stuff,’ Jim added, once more speaking to the shell of Spock’s ear, closer this time to the tip than to the lobe. He was hoarse and out of breath. The similarities to an allergic reaction were startling. ‘It’s weird, sure. And I’m probably not getting all the specifics. But you’re weird. _Some_ people call that kinky.’

Spock was accustomed to the former appellation but not the latter. His eyebrow lifted; Jim’s teeth closed over the pinna of Spock’s left ear. It was not painful, nor did it seem intended to be. The tightness of Jim’s grip at the small of Spock’s back mirrored the pressure of that single, admonishing bite. He was experiencing with the full range of sensory potential at his disposal, and when one of Spock’s muscles tightened, or when his breathing quickened, Jim made...noises.

Close to laughter; very far from laughter. Sharp exhalations and deeper inhalations that followed, out of rhythm and out of time, as unsteady as his heartbeat, hot and damp on Spock’s skin. He was more solidly built than Nyota; there was the matter of his arousal where it made itself known in the space between his belly and Spock’s thigh; his hands were large and grasping but far from careless, stroking neat ridges along Spock’s spine, wrinkling the back of his shirt this time, rather than the front.

‘You gotta tell me...’ Jim hiccupped on what may have been a moan. ‘...you feel _that_ , Spock.’

Spock would have been able to measure his words if his hands had not been on Jim’s chest. With only fabric and a simple layer of twitching pectoral muscles between his fingertips and Jim’s heartbeat—healthy and hale as it had been before his death, and in the days following his return to life—he could measure only the rhythm Jim’s heart produced and every fresh, flanking wave of desire. Not like phaser fire; not like photon beams. Not like anything. There would be no need for metaphor, for none would suffice.

‘I cannot lie.’ Spock only recognized moments of his own voice. The rest was as foreign as the situation itself—recognizably new. ‘To which ‘that’ are you referring?’

Jim bit Spock’s ear for a second time. ‘That,’ he said. His fingers bunched in a handful of fabric, pulling Spock’s shirt loose from where it had once been neatly tucked, and a knuckle grazed the bare skin on Spock’s back. ‘That,’ he said. He lifted his hips so they were pressed against Spock’s and the friction of taut fabric teased at sensitive skin, then rolled his hips so that the friction increased exponentially. ‘ _That_ ,’ he said. His voice strained, as did the curve of his back, the muscles in his thighs.

Spock braced himself on the bed one-handed and found Jim’s hand with the other. For a moment, Jim held it as humans did, palm to sweaty palm.

‘Shit, you’re hot, Spock,’ Jim said. ‘I mean, literally... _hot_. But also... _hot_ hot _._ ’ All the blood flow that was meant for the brain had been diverted elsewhere; Spock’s understanding of human anatomy prevented him from worrying about the sudden and unprecedented loss of verbal faculties. ‘That’s a Vulcan thing, right? _Shit_ , we’ve gotta—get trapped in a snowy cave-in sometime and—body heat, _Jesus_ —’

‘Ah,’ Spock said. ‘I see now why humans prefer their method of kissing.’

Jim’s breath caught as he bit his lower lip. Spock could just see the shade of his eyes in the shadow cast by Spock’s face above his. ‘Why’ssat?’ Jim asked.

‘To save themselves the later embarrassment of recalling what they have said during coitus,’ Spock replied.

It was an act of mercy when he kissed Jim again—one met with great reward, as Jim stroked Spock’s fingers to the knuckles in a way that indicated too much research applied to Vulcans during a time when Jim’s attentions should have gone primarily to matters of Deltan goodwill and communication.

He had established both with Spock already. It did not make sense to dedicate valuable time and considerable brainpower to curry favor where a bond had already been formed—and yet, Jim could not be content with what he had. No, it was rather that he did not care to remain still when he could move forward, or rest at one level when he saw greater heights. The term _overachiever_ as well as _show-off_ had been appended to his files in the personal comments, where training instructors did not always adhere strictly to performance evaluations, numerical scales, and aptitude percentages.

There was much frank appraisal of Jim’s personality within Starfleet, though none of his supporters or detractors had ever come close to touching upon his true complexities.

Jim groaned as though Spock’s weight on him was a burden. His breathing turned slow and shallow, the drag of his hips against Spock’s rhythmic and undeniably deliberate. They had overshot kissing by a considerable distance—as a ship dropping out of warp to orbit an unfamiliar planet. The latter was something Spock knew how to command; it was also a situation in which he could trust Jim’s judgment.

The same would logically apply here.

With his left hand, Jim found the links of Spock’s vertebrae, trailing upward along his back with the pads of his fingers. The touch was callused but gentle. Curious. On its heels came flushed heat and a tightness of breath, its suddenness so disorienting that Spock could not trace its source, could not determine whether it had come from himself or Jim.

Lacking the proper mental state to consider protocol, Spock acted in a space between logic and instinct. He mirrored the touch in reverse, trailing a hand down the textured weave of Jim’s gold shirt. The abdominal muscles beneath his fingers tensed, then jumped. Jim’s hand faltered against Spock’s spine, the purpose in his touch distracted.

Spock had seen Jim approach unfamiliar territory with the same bombast and reckless confidence he displayed in all walks of life. Circumspection was not in his nature. Yet it abided.

Spock, in reading on human courtship rituals, _had_ discovered that it was common practice to rearrange the basic values of one’s fundamental beliefs in order to more closely align with that of an attractive mate. This was known as reasonable compromise.

But there was no reason for Jim to apply such logic here where it was only the two of them. They had done away with the ‘diplomatic bullshit’ by his command.

‘Captain.’ Spock found it difficult to form the words when his lips were not entirely his own. Jim would not give ground, teeth scraping over the medial depression between Spock’s nose and mouth. He bit his lower lip and sucked it, causing a tender spot to swell. ‘ _Jim._ ’

‘Fuckin’ right.’ Jim’s voice was thick, preoccupied with arousal. He curled his fingers at the small of Spock’s back and splayed them, palm to skin. ‘ _Say_ my name.’

A confirmation of participants was not why Spock had chosen to speak. Although, just now, his purpose had once again clouded. Jim hooked his leg around Spock’s, his calf pressed in the hollow at the back of Spock’s knee.

Spock tried again. His tone was strained, a product of the dry air and a lack of proper oxygen intake. ‘Captain.’

Perhaps it was not something that could be conveyed in words. He tugged Jim’s shirt free of where it had been tucked haphazardly earlier that morning, fingers tracing the trail of hair that stretched from his navel below the waist of his uniform regulation pants.

Jim’s body contracted in a manner reminiscent of being struck a blow from an enemy’s phaser—set to stun. But the connection was by no means fatal. There was no weapon in the room but their hands, only as effective as their ability to apply them.

Spock’s pulse raced along familiar pathways. He could grasp the novelty Jim found in exploring a body unfamiliar to his own; the rush that came from procuring a visible response was...considerable.

Their hands on the bed remained tightly clasped, fingers slippery with Jim’s sweat as Jim’s thumb dug into the base of Spock’s thenar eminence.

‘Ah,’ Spock said.

It was more than the basic summary of that sound—a single erstwhile breath, which could barely express the complexity of the simultaneous internal reactions that had created it, then allowed it to escape. Spock closed his eyes; the loss of one sense engendered the momentary illusion that the others were in some way heightened, when in reality, it was the lack of distraction that allowed them the pretense of magnification. Jim’s ragged fingernail, the blunt square of his thumb, the callus formed from flipping his communicator open and shut while in the captain’s chair, deep in thought despite the minor interruptions of that arrhythmic noise; Jim’s teeth and tongue, the former insistent, tenacious, the latter intrepid, even enterprising; Jim’s hips, which rolled thoughtlessly, but not without direction or without magnetism—and each answering reaction Spock’s body performed, more than a simple mirror image. Their differences in height, weight, approach and intensity were, Spock concluded, what made the moment as pleasurable as it was. The sheets, despite how highly recommended they had come, had little to nothing to do with it.

‘ _Ah_.’ Jim had swallowed the word and now, later, he echoed it. ‘ _Ah_ —seriously, that’s—that’s all you’re gonna give me— _ah, captain_ —ah—’

That was not all Spock intended to give, nor all that he could. It had been an honest response, however small. If there was to be more, there was—Spock sensed from the bursts of heat in Jim’s fingertips building momentum, but also the roughened draw of his hurried breaths—little time left in which to do it. His knuckles brushed against the hair between Jim’s external obliques, following the single trail leading downward into his pants, darker than anticipated.

No; ‘anticipated’ was incorrect. It was darker than matched the hair Spock saw daily—but he had anticipated none of this and could not, in good conscience, allow himself to believe he had.

He had not anticipated the sweat, or the moment Jim fell cautiously still; he had not anticipated Jim’s voice and his own name spoken by it, far deeper and more private than its echo on the bridge; he had not anticipated the shiver that followed when his fingertips, sensitive as they had ever been, raked along the underside of Jim’s arousal from the tip, sticky the moment they crested the head and its slit, tugging fabric carefully aside.

‘Holy—’ Jim sucked in a breath that filled his belly and chest. He squirmed, never a patient or obedient subject. ‘You don’t...haveta be so... _scientific_ , Spock—’ he began, but could not complete the thought beyond a few short gasps, fingers grasping out of time, clenching Spock’s hand as Spock refused, all his rigorous self-control straining with the same tension of Jim’s arched thighs, to allow tactile stimulus to foster carelessness.

The point of Jim’s anatomy Spock now held was one of the most vulnerable, and also one of the most sensitive, on a human male of any age. The differences between Vulcan and human external and internal structures, though shadowed, was something Spock felt, rather than saw—along with a network of minute yet powerful reactions to even the slightest of provocational contact. Where Spock touched, Jim reacted. It was...

‘Fascinating,’ Spock said.

‘ _Fascinating_ ,’ Jim repeated. ‘Is that like...fascinating _good_ , or fascinating _Jesus_ —’

Spock had experimented with tension and release—and it had been successful. So successful, in fact, that Spock knew before Jim did that he was on the verge of experiencing climactic release, from the throb and hum of blood in the vein along the underside of his erection to the moisture beading at the tip.

He spread Jim’s fingers with his own, five fingertips against five each. When Jim achieved his climax, there were no barriers between them, and Spock’s bare skin, his hands which were most vulnerable and most sensitive, drank the ensuing telepathic onslaught as a man dying of thirst meeting with a flood.

As intense as it was, it could not maintain that level of intensity for long. Jim’s body, braced in position, buckled; the arm he had slung around Spock’s shoulders—Spock could not recall, precisely, when—dragged Spock down to his chest; and, Spock realized, Jim was limp. The heartbeat under Spock’s ear was far from steady. It attempted to return to resting, but it took some time to achieve its most comfortable and stable rate.

Jim’s chest rose and fell, lungs expanding and contracting with a slow intake of air. His fingers twitched, lacing through Spock’s with idle purpose. Now that his pleasure was no longer concentrated around a specific point, its area of effect widened. They had not seen fit to retreat beneath the covers, but the ensuing glow of Jim’s settling gratification spread over Spock much like a blanket.

He did not care for the metaphor, but that made it no less relevant.

‘What is the significance of ‘fascinating Jesus’?’ Spock asked.

By his estimation, the appropriate amount of silence had been observed before embarking on the next course of action, which was pillow talk.

A shudder of silent laughter ran through Jim’s body. Spock did not lift his head. The vibration was not unpleasant but rather something he had come to associate with Jim. It unsettled him—yet it did not disrupt him. ‘It means I am an _idiot_ for not trying that sooner.’

The answer seemed specious at best, completely irrelevant at worst.

But Spock could feel the gentle, soporific influence already affecting Jim’s perception. The restoration of blood flow to his higher functions did not dictate a return to an ordered mind. Jim’s body was a human one and responded to stimulus and exertion with a natural need to recuperate afterward.

Therefore it was not alarming that Jim was still speaking nonsense.

If the trait persisted after rest and the Deltan sunrise, Spock would consult with the chief medical officer on the proper course of treatment for a ‘blown’ mind.

*


	8. VIII.

Morning came as it always had, although this fact was all that remained familiar within Spock’s waking routine.

The first difference was location: his head was pillowed below Jim’s clavicle and against his chest, Jim’s arm stretched around his shoulders, fingers stroking along the inner length of Spock’s biceps. The glow of the PADD Jim held propped against his sternum was momentarily blinding the instant Spock opened his eyes. He squinted, controlling the amount of light that filtered through his corneas until the words ceased to blur.

It was a maintenance report from engineering. Montgomery Scott had listed everything as ‘ship-shape’ and wished to know whether the same could be said regarding the status of the captain’s impending nuptials.

_If I can make a warp core purr like a kitten, I’ll wager you can do the same for your first officer,_ the final line read.

‘Vulcans do not purr,’ Spock said.

Jim coughed and flipped the PADD screen-side down onto his chest. Neither of them had remembered to remove the rose petals from the floor, an oversight that seemed inexcusable by light of day.

Spock did not move to correct it.

‘You’re awake,’ Jim said. Then, as he realized this comment was self-evident, he added, ‘Scotty’s an idiot.’

‘On the contrary,’ Spock replied, ‘for a human, Mr. Scott has on numerous occasions displayed a rare and impressive intellect.’

‘That’s not…’ Jim paused to clear his throat. Spock shifted his head, adjusting his angle of observation to check Jim’s eyes for further signs of allergic reaction. As of yet, they remained blue, with no trace of inflammation in the surrounding tissue. ‘Can you maybe _not_ compliment members of the crew when we’re in bed together?’

‘I see no reason why our surroundings should dissuade me from attributing credit where credit is due,’ Spock replied.

His assessment of Jim’s condition had been completed in a matter of seconds—and yet he was still examining Jim’s eyes. The light in them was less offensive than the electronic luminescence of the PADD.

‘One of these days,’ Jim said, ‘you’re gonna tell me why you’re so nice to everyone but me.’

‘An honest appraisal of skill is not—’

‘Spock,’ Jim said.

The expression he wore was determined, although what purpose he had galvanized himself toward, Spock could only guess. Jim’s gaze shifted to Spock’s mouth and it occurred to him that no one had bothered to document what seemed to be one of the chief uses of human kissing; it was best employed when you wished to stop someone from speaking entirely.

Jim leaned forward. His lips were chapped. Spock did not move away, though the intimate brush of lazy affection that bloomed within him at the contact _was_ cause for review.

Later.

When they were not in the midst of—

The door to their room hissed open. McCoy stepped through as if he had kicked it down.

Spock did not have to be a doctor to take pointed notice of his current presentation: the lopsided collar of his medical blues, half-untucked from his trousers, and hair that had been swept sideways from its customary state. His eyes were wide, if not rimmed in red, and he was holding a beeping body scanner aloft in one hand, attempting to tuck in his shirt with the other.

When he saw the rose petals, the bed, that Jim was missing his shirt, and the other obvious signs of sexual engagement, he froze where he stood, mid-heaving breath. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘I’m too late.’

‘Pretty sure you’re early, Bones.’ Jim’s voice may have achieved external confidence, but Spock knew from his skin that he was anything but casual. ‘...And what’s the point of having a honeymoon suite in the first place if nobody’s going to bother to knock, anyway?’

‘The _pheromones_ , man!’ McCoy found his stalled impetus and rocketed forward, nearly crashing into the bed. ‘They’ve gotten to you—they’ve gotten to all of us!’

‘Yeah?’ Jim grinned. It had not reached his eyes. ‘What was your _first_ clue, Bones?’

‘Damn it, man, I’m a doctor, not a Deltan sex toy!’ McCoy lurched closer and the frequency of the body scanner’s beeping intensified. ‘But they’ve been barraging us with pheromonal suggestion for days now—it’s a miracle we’ve staved it off as long as we have—we’re practically _saints_ , that’s what we—my God, Jim,’ McCoy repeated, ‘there’s a _Vulcan ear shape_ on your chest!’

‘Sit down, Bones,’ Jim suggested. ‘Put your head between your legs. Breathe into a bag if you have to.’

‘I’ll have you know I’m the doctor here, Jim, not you, and if anybody needs to sit in a chair with their head between their legs, it’s—’ McCoy faltered. He looked from Jim’s mouth—lips swollen with eager kisses—to Spock’s face—which was not, to Spock’s knowledge, flushing, despite the discomfort of the present situation. ‘My God,’ McCoy said, for the third time. ‘That’s not what the two of you have been doing all night, is it? I’m too late—I’m too damn late!’

It had become necessary for Jim—as their acting captain on a foreign planet—to take control of the situation. As such, Spock relinquished his hold and sat aside, giving Jim the requisite room to compose himself. His bare skin disappeared beneath the wrinkled yellow shirt and his head, hair tousled, appeared through the neck hole, just in time for him to rub at a bleary eye.

‘Doctor McCoy,’ Jim said, with a hint of his bridge command, ‘give me a status report. Now.’

‘Deltan pheromones,’ McCoy replied, after taking a deep and steadying breath. ‘They’re everywhere—seeping through the damn atmosphere. From the tests I’ve run, like I said—it’s a miracle we made it this long without participating in some kind of obscene group orgy!’

‘Best and only kind of orgy there is,’ Jim said.

McCoy’s anxiety shifted into meaningful—and focused—annoyance. Spock realized that Jim had encouraged the progress intentionally and could not deny that the subtlety of that manipulation _was_ an impressive feat of engineering. ‘But from the looks of things in here, I didn’t get to you in time. I _would_ have, too, if that friend of Fyora’s hadn’t _cornered_ me in the middle of my research, mixing up the samples I had and...’

Spock did not have to raise an eyebrow. Jim had already done so, to equal effect.

‘Now hold on, Bones.’ Jim leaned forward, elbow braced against one bent knee. ‘Were you _orgying it up_ last night, yourself? Oh my God—oh my God, you _were_. Well _congratulations_ , Doctor McCoy. What’s that on your neck? Did a—did a _Deltan_ do that?’ 

McCoy rearranged his collar hurriedly, a tell-tale sign that Jim had hit his intended target dead center. ‘Never mind about that, Jim—don’t you hear what I’m saying? This planet’s been playing us like puppets the whole damn time we’ve been here!’

‘You mean sex puppets,’ Jim said. ‘...Well, it could be worse.’

McCoy’s expression and hand gestures conveyed the meaning his absent words could not have done as succinctly: that he saw no way in which it could be worse; that he had passion enough to imagine many terrible things on the horizon, yet he still could not envision a less unfortunate scenario than the one at present; that Spock and Jim had spent the night together in bed without pillows between them and he wished he had not known it; and, possibly, that the large red mark on the side of his throat was causing him to experience acute discomfort.

‘We need to finish these talks and get out of here before we go sex mad,’ McCoy concluded. ‘... _More_ sex mad. Five years in space,’ he added. He shook his head. He had calmed, though with the doctor, one could never be certain how long that state would last.

‘It is unlikely that the Deltans would intentionally conduct such an assault on a diplomatic envoy,’ Spock said. Now that the moment had passed—now that McCoy’s temper had temporarily subsided—it seemed prudent to enter the dialogue. Jim was more than a match for the doctor’s fervent diatribes but in the moments when cooler heads were needed, Spock found himself picking up where his captain left off. ‘Their culture is largely centered on the cultivation of pleasure, but they would not endanger their place with the Federation, nor their reputation with Starfleet.’

‘So you’re saying what, exactly?’ McCoy rubbed his neck. ‘They tripped and _fell_ into our heads? That makes me feel so much better, Spock. You’re a regular ray of Georgia sunshine.’

‘I am suggesting,’ Spock continued, before McCoy became ensnared in his own narrative, ‘that they might have been just as unprepared for the long-term effects of their pheromones on humans as you were for the same, doctor. The distinction would be important to note in any logs recorded.’

‘As unprepared as _I_ was?’ McCoy managed to make even an echo of Spock’s own words without textual alteration sound disagreeable. In the periphery of Spock’s vision Jim was preparing for the day; he slid his PADD onto the table and began to stretch the stiffness from his muscles. Evidently neither of them had slept in a position ideal for maximum individual comfort. ‘I suppose your superior Vulcan brain’s _immune_ to this stuff. Like water off a duck’s back.’

Jim stilled.

‘The Vulcan aptitude for resisting psionic suggestion has nothing to do with waterfowl,’ Spock replied.

‘Need I remind you what I just walked in on?’ If McCoy had been one of the ducks he was so fond of, his feather would have ruffled. ‘I suppose you’re gonna tell me that was all just _your own_ idea, and perfectly logical, at that.’

Spock opened his mouth to do as suggested.

‘All right.’ Jim clapped his hands together, the sudden, sharp sound like a crack of electricity through the room. ‘Consider us warned. We’ll wrap things up and warp our primitive minds out of here before you start a Deltan family, Bones. I promise. In the meantime, I’m taking a shower and Spock here needs a minute to count and number his thoughts. So get out. ...Unless you wanna join me.’

He punctuated this statement with a lavish wink in McCoy’s direction. It was clear on some level that he enjoyed agitating McCoy’s sense of urgency about the pheromones, playing up their effect to greater reaction. As tactics went, it seemed unusually aggressive—even for Jim. It was almost as if he was issuing small-scale punishment for a slight Spock had not yet discerned.

‘This whole trip’s been one bad idea after another.’ McCoy straightened his shirt, grumbling all the while. ‘I _used_ to only have to worry about you two killing each other if I left you alone. _Now_ I’ve got… _images_.’

‘You’ll live,’ Jim said.

He took a familiar stance at McCoy’s side, steering him out with an arm around his shoulders. This, at least, was behavior Spock recognized.

He regarded the rose petals lining the floor. They were dark and curling, their internal structure drawing tight as they lost moisture. Several had been trampled under the rush of McCoy’s eager boots, moving with the single-minded intent he had always employed: to caution, to cure, to ascertain the mental well-being of captain and crew.

There were many traits in the doctor that Spock found reason to object to. This was not one of them.

And yet, it was with a sense of dissatisfaction that Spock stirred himself from the bed at last to clear their room of floral debris. Jim did not pause; neither did he offer aid upon his solitary return to the master bathroom.

Spock refrained from issuing his usual reminder of the water rations currently affecting Delta IV. Less than a minute later, it ran freely from the tap, as though Delta IV had no trouble with a drought at all.

*

Their final day of negotiations with the Deltans went as smoothly as could be expected whenever diplomats of distinct and separate species were involved, with the Federation agreeing to lend fiscal aid in return for certain technological developments the Deltans were willing to offer. The Deltan ambassador was pleased; his attaches were equally positive about future relations; all had been concluded in a manner of which, at least externally, every member of the landing party could be proud. Underneath the surface, there had been a few unforeseen hitches—and, over dinner, Fyora alone expressed regret that of all they had brought to fruition, she wished only that they might have had more time together. ‘In order to plan and execute a human wedding worthy of the tradition,’ she explained, ‘to honor our Starfleet friends as, metaphorically speaking, family. I believe that is the correct application of the phrase?’

‘Admit it,’ Jim said, the remnants of his final Deltan hamburger a mere scattering of crumbs on his plate, ‘you’re just a girl who _loves_ a good party.’

‘That depends upon your definition of ‘good’.’ Fyora touched Jim’s thigh in the same intimate manner she had employed on the first evening of their talks. Jim allowed it. The Deltan ambassador showed no signs whatsoever of being troubled by their proximity—how close the two had become; how often they bowed their heads together in private conversation, tones hushed, laughter secretive—and Spock had no reason to sit up straighter, which, to his concern, he found himself doing anyway. There was little room left now for worry; the proper documents had been signed and processed. Barring an act of extreme unpleasantness, the Deltan delegation from the Enterprise would beam back aboard their ship early the next morning and be gone from Delta IV for a very long time. And, depending on the report Doctor McCoy filed—according to him, it would regard the dangerously high pheromone levels on the planet and include his advice that future human landing parties not beam down for any extended period of visitation—that ‘long time’ might very well stretch into ‘forever’.

Yet, as Jim would have said: _never say never._

Jim leaned even closer, whispering something against Fyora’s ear. Spock had known for himself how it felt to receive that attention: Jim’s hot breath and his preference to linger.

But, if Doctor McCoy was entirely correct, then Spock could now understand the nature of Jim’s private distress that morning. External factors—though they had an impact that was highly internal—had drawn them together physically the night before. Spock’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the implications of such a failure to resist even unintentional telepathic compulsion. 

It was little wonder the captain was displeased—and little wonder he had returned to his customary flirtations now that the terms of their necessary play-acting were nearly ended.

Still, despite the neatness of the proof, there was something about the affair that remained...illogical.

Fyora whispered something in Jim’s ear in reply; she, too, had a preference to linger.

Spock stood and made his polite farewells, citing the necessity of retiring early in order to rise early. Fyora looked upon him with a distant sense of regret—but she could not have regretted all that deeply, for soon she and Jim were in close conference as before, and Spock left the dining hall unnoticed, returning to a honeymoon suite that no longer had a trace of flowers past, present, or future.

That did not mean there had not been flowers once. Spock found the loveseat where it had always been and, though he had no one to join him while sitting in it, he employed it first for the final of his on-planet reports, mentioning Doctor Leonard McCoy’s assessment and advising Starfleet in his first officer’s log that any future delegation would be better served meeting in a neutral zone—perhaps on one of the orbiting moons, rather than landing on Delta IV directly. His business finished, his duties attended to, he remained in the loveseat for a second purpose: meditation, which came less easily than it should have, but offered him the still and tranquil waters of resting peace.

Spock was unaware of the time as it passed in measured beats; he was unaware of events spurred by telepathic and alien pheromones. He was removed from all of it until something rippled through his tranquility, disturbing the surface tension. Spock’s eyes opened, one after the other.

Jim was sitting in the left half of the loveseat. Rather, it was more accurate to observe that Jim had thrownhimself down onto the cushions, the resulting displacement jolting the springs upward beneath Spock’s side. It was nothing like an earthquake—but Spock was beginning to draw a clear association between _upheaval_ and _Jim Kirk_ as relative terms.

‘Captain.’ Spock’s breathing was controlled, his voice distant. The effects of his meditation clung to him like decontamination spray, tingling over his skin as it worked.

‘Napping on the job, Spock?’ Jim slouched low, long legs stretched out in front of him.

‘I was not asleep,’ Spock replied.

This had been obvious, but it was obvious also that Jim’s mind was elsewhere. It was in his nature to cast about with his mouth while processing a particularly difficult, compound concept. Spock was not often given to indulging this peculiar trait, but circumstances were...atypical. He had not sought to discuss McCoy’s findings any further with Jim but they must have been a weight upon his shoulders.

Spock turned his gaze, but not his head, to observe him. ‘I believe you are familiar with the concept of Vulcan meditation.’ Jim was not as ignorant as he allowed or even encouraged others to assume. It was a façade of some convenience, as he often performed well against those who underestimated him. ‘In addition, as our affairs on Delta IV have been put in order, ‘the job’, as you term it, has already been seen to completion.’

‘Touchy,’ Jim said.

His gaze on Spock’s face was calculating. It was an expression he wore often, assessing risk to the crew or the Enterprise before initiating a response. It was _not_ the expression he wore while assessing personal risk—because despite everything in his history to act as a deterrent, Jim did not often reckon against his own mortality.

He acted first, then allowed the consequences to catch up with him—if they could.

It occurred to Spock that their positions were in reverse of what they had been that morning: Jim looking up while Spock looked down. There was also distance between them, and clothing. They were sharing a piece of furniture designed for romantic intrigue but neither had crossed the center seam where the cushions met. Spock could smell the hamburger Jim had enjoyed at dinner, the alcoholic beverage he’d washed it down with, and something faintly sweet he could not place. Perhaps a Deltan dessert.

‘I believe it is you to whom that appellation rightfully belongs,’ Spock said.

Jim was touchy. Spock had not learned that from his personnel file.

‘No way.’ Jim sat up straighter. His left hand was occupied with something, tucked against his side. Spock could not see it without leaning over and betraying himself with idle curiosity. ‘Did you just—what was that? The Vulcan version of _I know you are, but what am I_?’

‘I am regretfully unfamiliar with human poetry,’ Spock replied.

‘You are so _full_ of it.’ This did not read as a compliment. True to form, Jim’s expression of delight gave way to dismay. ‘Shit. I mean…that’s not what I meant. This isn’t—you are _impossible_ to talk to. Has anybody ever told you that? They must’ve told you that. People _have_ to tell you that all the time. And if they don’t, they’re lying. ...By omission.’

Spock could have pointed out that Jim had an intuitive gift for conversation which superseded the necessity for a partner at all. But it was evident now that he was laboring around some basic thought, caught in its field of gravity, and would have been all too eager to latch onto a diversion. As first officer, it was Spock’s duty to assist Jim in seeing matters to their natural conclusion.

As his friend, he did not wish to interrupt.

Once again, Spock found himself face to face with a serious logical contradiction, one which had no ready solution. It would require time, patience, and determination to produce a practicable theorem for working with it logically, despite its troublesome parameters.

_It takes work_ , Nyota had once said. _It takes_ two _, Spock._

He was fond of that moment. It was, among many memories, a particularly fine one. As had been the previous night—a fact which Spock could no longer attempt to deny. To do so would have been illogical.

Jim still had not spoken.

‘Are you going to work with me here or not, Spock?’ he asked at length, licking his bottom lip.

‘On what, precisely, are we working, Jim?’ Spock replied.

Jim’s eyes wrinkled at the corners and he looked away, but only briefly. He was not one to avoid the glare of the sun; he did not often shield his eyes. If he wished to feel something then he chose to engage it fully; Spock knew this from more than mere observational efforts. He looked back, as Spock had anticipated, pinching the bridge of his nose, dropping his hand. ‘That’s as close to a _yes_ as I’m going to get with you, isn’t it?’

‘‘It’ will take work,’ Spock replied. ‘...Whatever ‘it’ may be.’

‘Uncharacteristically vague, Mr. Spock. Even for a half-human.’ But Jim was grinning, a restless and intractable grin that said more about him, Spock believed, than any number of whispered statements to a Deltan ambassador’s life-mate.

The recollection of Fyora and all that she had represented during their mission caused Spock to frown, if marginally. It was a small shift, but Jim was close enough to notice it. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey. ...You know what we would’ve said back home to something like that? _Hey is for horses_. Damn, am I glad you aren’t from earth sometimes, Spock.’

Spock allowed his silence to be quizzical. Jim grinned again.

‘Look,’ he said, and for reasons unknown chose that specific moment to look away again, ‘here’s the thing, Spock. Call it human superstition, call it sentimentality, I don’t care _what_ you call it—so long as you call, hah, that’s a joke—but since this was one hell of a mission, we’ve gotta have a memento of all the _crazy times_ we got into here. You know, so we can say, this reminds me that time we got engaged on Delta IV. ...You don’t just do something like that and chalk it up to _pheromones_ ,’ Jim added, rubbing his side. ‘Pheromones can only carry you so far. Besides, you’re _Spock_ , Spock.’ Spock nodded to confirm the truism. ‘So, what I mean is... Like _hell_ you’d let a little thing like _psychic hormones_ make you do anything.’

‘While I appreciate the sentiment—’ Spock began.

‘Save the sentiment appreciation for just—just a second,’ Jim continued. Unstoppable. As he had always been, and ever would be. ‘See, the thing is, Spock, Fyora was... She was pretty disappointed about the whole wedding thing. And it’s not like I could leave the Deltan negotiations with any loose threads. So in the spirit of...diplomacy, the prime directive, all that stuff you just _love_ —doing things _right_ —I had to let her chip in somehow. Part of the deal. Part of the _ritual_. Deltans... They think humans are so damn _cute_ when they’re horny or nervous or...’

Jim’s fingers fumbled at his side—an atypical display of uncertainty, over which he swiftly triumphed. When the moment had fully passed he removed from his pocket a small, black box and opened it to reveal the ring inside: a simple band of what was most likely tungsten, without a stone.

‘It says Delta IV on the inside,’ Jim said. ‘Engraved. Just a personal... Whatever. Seriously, Spock, you should’ve seen the rock she wanted to put on there—but I didn’t think the flashy stuff was your style. Wouldn’t match the ears. Anyway, you’re going to have to wear it. Diplomacy. The prime directive.’

‘I do not believe you are employing that phrase with total accuracy,’ Spock said.

‘Don’t leave me hanging, Spock,’ Jim replied.

‘I appreciate the sentiment,’ Spock repeated. ‘...Was that a more appropriate time to do so?’

‘Yeah.’ Jim swallowed. ‘Yeah, Spock. I guess it was.’

Spock took the box, examining its contents. There was nothing to be gleaned from his possession of the thing that he had not already learned from seeing it in Jim’s hand. Objects had no emotions to be read. They were not sentient creatures, with their own tangled and forceful emotions brushing against Spock’s mind. The ring was itself. It was the intent behind the gift that mattered—but Spock had been given an explanation that was far from concrete.

And yet, it held enough merit to be worthy of consideration.

Just as there was nothing to be read from the ring, Spock did _not_ require the use of his telepathy to know that Jim was radiating doubt. His entire posture suggested he would next attempt to disappear into the internal structure of the loveseat, never to be seen again. He retained, however, the same restless energy he possessed in advance of committing to one course of action or the other.

The drum of his fingers against the armrest was too rapid to be peaceful.

Spock took the band from the box, sliding it onto the appropriate finger. The metal was cool but warmed quickly against his skin.

‘Wait—’ Jim reached forward suddenly, then aborted the motion. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘Damn it. I’m supposed to… I was gonna put it on.’

Spock considered the ring, then Jim.

‘I believe adhering to such tradition is necessary only for a proper Earth ceremony.’ Spock flexed his fingers outward then in toward his palm, attempting to discern how the added weight would affect him. Vulcans did not often adorn their hands with jewelry, finding the constant stimulus a distraction at best and an irritant at worst.

Experiment conducted, Spock could conclude that it would not interfere with any essential functions.

‘Right.’ Jim nodded, more times than seemed strictly necessary. ‘I knew that. I mean, I _know_ that, I’m just all…’ He trailed off, his train of thought disrupted by the sight of the ring on Spock’s finger. Then he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You sure _Vulcans_ don’t have that hormone thing? Pheromones. Making humans moan.’

‘I am sure,’ Spock said. No further elaboration required, as it did not seem a serious inquiry.

He touched his thumb to the base of his finger, where the ring sat. A potential oversight occurred to him.

‘Where is your ring?’

Jim blinked, as though he believed he was the one whose private meditative session had been interrupted and entirely halted. He cleared his throat—though this seemed to be a tactic to buy time in advance of speaking, as no trace of their roses remained in the suite—digging in his pocket a second time. The band he presented this time was a twin of Spock’s, though it sat in the palm of Jim’s hand instead of a box.

‘I was gonna…’ He paused, carrying his gaze to the windows at the far corner of the room. Whatever was in Jim’s throat, it was resilient. ‘You know. Put it on before we go. One last big show for the road. Unless you didn’t want yours, in which case I was going to put both of ‘em in Scotty’s personal things, then wait for someone else to find it and make assumptions about him and his little friend. Nah, I’m just kidding. I’m not _that_ much of a dick.’

What action Jim would truly have taken if Spock had refused the notion altogether had not been made readily apparent. There was the possibility that Jim himself did not know yet, although any alternate plans had been made superfluous when Spock had not ‘left’ him ‘hanging.’

‘I believe that matter has been settled, in any case,’ Spock said.

If it was necessary for him to don the rings that Fyora had procured, then by the same token, it did not seem fair for Jim to delay in wearing his own. _Sauce for the goose_ —although Spock did not think McCoy had ever envisioned the precise scenario in which his colorful statement was now being applied.

Jim cleared his throat again. When Spock met his eyes he gestured toward his throat and mouthed the word _tickle_. ‘Roses,’ he added. ‘I don’t know; maybe I’m just allergic to romance.’

‘Do you intend to leave me hanging?’ Spock asked. He held out his hand, the ring positioned between thumb and forefinger. Ready to be given in the traditional means, as was to be expected.

‘Huh?’ Jim blinked. He stared at the ring, through the ring, down the length of each of Spock’s fingers, then traveled back up to Spock’s face. Spock lifted a brow and Jim took his meaning. ‘Uh-uh,’ Jim said. ‘Never gonna happen, Spock.’

He held out his hand. Spock observed at least one half of the proper ceremony—which was, he acknowledged, a way of life already familiar to him—and slid the ring on Jim’s awaiting finger. Metal and skin met his touch: the silence of the tungsten band and the hum of complex emotional reactions from Jim’s flesh contradicted one another not unpleasantly.

‘Cool,’ Jim said. ‘Now we match. ...Man, they are going to give us _so_ much shit for this back on the Enterprise. I mean, we are _never_ gonna hear the end of it.’

‘Perhaps your suggested tactic for distraction may yet prove of some use,’ Spock replied. When Jim looked at him quizzically, he clarified: ‘A ring in Mr. Scott’s personal belongings _would_ cause the topic of conversation to shift considerably. I believe the phrase commonly applied in such a situation would be _fighting fire with fire_?’

Realization dawned in Jim’s eyes. ‘You _son of a_...’ he began—then he, too, clarified: ‘You’re a badass, Spock—you know that?’

‘I will not forget it,’ Spock replied.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks SO MUCH for reading and for commenting and dropping kudos and such. Still terrified of the enormity of this fandom and the greatness of its ancestry and all of that stuff but deeply obsessed with this pairing OOPS! Anyway thanks again to my wonderful betas and to Iambickilometer for the initial idea and to you for checking it out and hitting the kudos button. There was originally going to be a sequel to this right away but then I got bitten by a serious Mirrorverse Pirate-Spock bug so there are some fics of that nature that will be coming up...really really soon. And then maybe a sequel to this at some point. Someday. After Pirate Spock stops taking up so much attention.


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